


Makeshift Family: Director's Cut

by imanadultiguess



Series: Makeshift Family [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Assume all warnings apply, F/M, M/M, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-06-09 12:44:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 152,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15267768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imanadultiguess/pseuds/imanadultiguess
Summary: The entirety of the Moriarty-Moran love story in chronological order.Warning: Because this is just everything all together, there is no one coherent "plot."  It's just their lives and how they change.  Put together solely for the convenience of the reader.I consider "A Family Grew Around Me" to be my magnum opus.  This is just sort of . . . an unnecessary remix.The sex is in chapter 24.





	1. The First Good Deed of Jim Moriarty

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Family Grew Around Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7954483) by [imanadultiguess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imanadultiguess/pseuds/imanadultiguess). 



> I can't stop writing about this family to be honest.

_ December 2008 | Jim’s POV _

Do I feel anything? I mean, I’m staring at the lifeless body of the lifeform carrying my genes (spliced with the wench her father married, of course), dark wavy hair spread like a halo around her—she’s young, beautiful, pale.  I should feel something, right? That’s what people do, don’t they? They mourn the deaths of their siblings’ progeny?

I have too much to do to be here, and there’s not enough happening to keep me focused. Every single person in this church is infuriatingly boring. I have papers to grade, auditions to rehearse for, and a job interview at St. Bart’s. It’s difficult work being several different people.

Well, not difficult . . . just time consuming.  And time is something I have so little of nowadays.

That Basher boy . . . I like him. I like his shoulders.  And those delicious scars across the bridge of his nose. He’s a bit mouthy, but his military record shows he’s exceptionally loyal, and loyalty is a characteristic my last Chief of Staff lacked.  And paid dearly for it.

_ For fuck’s sake, why am I here? _

I hear the cadence of his footsteps, the slight drag of his right foot on the carpet, before we acknowledge one another. “Thank you for coming, Jameson.”

It’s with a bemused sort of tolerance I realize that we don’t “touch” in our family. The Moriartys don’t _ touch _ . But ordinary people touch. If we were ordinary brothers, his hand would be on my shoulder. If we were from an ordinary family, I’d embrace him. If we were ordinary people, he might even weep in my arms. We might find solace in one another. Or something. Whatever it is ordinary people do. Whatever it is ordinary people _need_.

I look up to see the very similar face of my brother James. The station master, retired Colonel. The mostly-normal person, despite whatever past we share. He blends in better, I think. I can blend, too, it's just so utterly painful to maintain the mask of normalcy.

Paintings to forge, history to steal, why am I here?

_ Why did I come? _

“That’s what people do,” I answer him with a shrug.

He lets out a shuddery breath. Ugh, he’s standing much too close; I can feel the humidity of his mouth. I take a step to my left, furthering myself from him. God, is he crying?   _Hide your disgust,_ I remind myself _. Pull yourself together, Jim. You can’t be disgusted by emotion at your niece’s funeral. People will get suspicious._

He rattles on, oblivious to the fact that I've moved away from him. “It means a lot that you came.”

Fucking hell, marriage has made him soft.

“It means even more that you paid for it.”

What? Unless I’ve missed the alteration of the definition of the word “anonymous,” someone is going to die.

That does explain the knowing looks the priest has been throwing my way.  _ Note to self: Basher will murder Father MacElreath _ .

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, James,” I tell him.

“The experimental treatments and the flights to Mexico--”

“That was a stupid move on your part, James,” I tell him. “You wasted a lot of money on a child the doctors told you you couldn’t save.”

Fury shines in his eyes. “Did you come here just to be a prick?” he snarls.  Finally. Rage. That's better. Rage is comforting. Sadness is icky. Like those slime concoctions we used to make in kindergarten.

I shrug again. I have no idea why I came to the funeral. I have no connection to this child. I barely have a connection to my brother. Much less this godforsaken piece of Ireland.

I have no idea why I paid for the funeral.

His face softens. He never had much fight in him. Disgusting. “Nonetheless, I appreciate it, Jim.” I glare at him. “And Sandra appreciates it.”

Sandra.  _ Ugh. _ Why in the world did he marry such an unattractive woman? Maybe I should’ve spent the money to get her teeth fixed—that would have been an expenditure I could live with. Funerals are idiotic; braces are brilliant.

“I just . . . don’t understand why you did it.”

“Did what?”

“Covered the cost of the funeral.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“If it was covered, James,” I ask evenly, “why does it matter who covered it or why?”

It’s his turn to shrug. He is so painfully boring. I’ve got a knife in my pocket, and I’m debating stabbing myself with it. Pain is infinitely more tolerable than this sort of dullness and mediocrity. And if I’m bleeding, I have the perfect excuse to leave. I should stab myself in the leg. Right now.

“It’s been five years, Jameson.”

“It’s Jim.”

“I haven’t heard from you since the wedding.”

I stare down at the dead child in front of me. They tried too hard to make her look healthy, as though she was just a girl asleep, but her cheeks lack the fullness of childhood and her closed eyes appear sunken. Her mouth is aged, and no amount of mortician’s makeup will fix that. The blush on her cheeks is a cheap imitation of life. God, I paid too much for this hack job. Not only did that scut mortician reveal the funeral’s financier, he fucked up a very basic make-up job.

Just talking to my brother is making my IQ drop. I’ve got to leave soon. Don’t know that I can manage the entire funeral, considering how painful the viewing is.

“She had your eyes. And your laugh.”  He’s trying to endear her to me. 

It doesn’t work.  “The correct phrasing would be she had _mam’s_ eyes.”

“I’d hoped you’d meet her.”

“Why would I want to meet a child who wouldn’t see an entire decade?”

It's his turn to shrug. “Just thought you might . . . want to.”

God, he’s so idiotic. She was unhealthy from the get-go. Lungs underdeveloped, a premature birth. They should’ve let her go long before her fourth birthday. All she knew was four and a half years of pain and fear. Why the fuck would I want to know that creature? Fear is such a waste of chemicals and neurotransmitters.

And what benefit had she to offer me?

Ordinary people don’t think like that, I suppose.  Perhaps James is more ordinary than I thought.  Or maybe Sandra's mediocrity has rubbed off on him.

My nails need trimming and buffing.  My roots are probably showing. The Moran lad is waiting outside, probably smoking. I like his brand of tobacco. It smells very masculine. Maybe I should start smoking.

Why am I still staring at this child?

It’s not even really a child anymore. It’s an amalgamation of carbon and hydrogen and oxygen and failed DNA.

I open my mouth to say something, then shut it. I pat James’ shoulder once. Then twice. God, that feels weird.

Finally, it comes out. “I’m sorry.”

Those words came out of my mouth, and while it seems like someone else said them, I wonder if I might actually mean them. There’s a cloudy sort of sensation in my chest, one that I really don’t like. It reminds me of _Wuthering Heights_ , and not in a sexy, dramatic sort of way.

I might actually be sad. Or rather, neurotransmitters in my brain are firing in a way that interprets sadness. Is sadness even real? If sadness is made up of chemicals, is it really _sadness_?

Doesn’t matter.

“Are you really?”

That’s the big-money question, isn’t it? Am I really? Am I really anything? If my skin cells are constantly dying and falling off my body, if the cells inside of me are constantly being replaced, am I really even Jim? Or with every new cell, with every dead cell, do I become someone new?

He’s waiting for an answer. “Abuses and tragedies were inflicted upon us from the time we were born. But the worst thing that’s happened to us, I think, was not inflicted. It was neglected. I don’t have an answer because I don’t have the words to assign to whatever chemical reactions are happening inside of me.”

He sighs, nodding his head to signify his understanding.

“What do you feel when you look at my daughter?”

“That I paid entirely too much for her to look like a blow-up doll. The mortician should be ashamed.”

Surprisingly, he laughs. “But . . . in terms of physicality--what do you feel?”

“Ooh, good question.” I turn to look at him, impressed. “Marrying a counselor’s been beneficial, has it?”

He half-smiles. “Answer the question, Jameson.”

“I go by Jim.”

“Answer the question.”

I look back at the dead child in the coffin. “Physically? I feel like someone’s left a dirty dish rag in the floor, and I’ve just stepped on it with my barefeet in the middle of the night.”

“So, annoyance, maybe?”

“Don’t do that,” I warn him. “Don’t assign meaning to anything about me. Nothing is inherent. Assigning meaning to a feeling or exploring the origin of an emotion is as futile as yelling at the sun not to rise. Your daughter is dead, your wife is hideous, and you’re boring. Whether or not I’m sad or happy or indifferent has no impact on the moon in orbit nor the rings around Saturn. So if I offer you any sort of emotional support, take it for what it is: an attempt to dull the pain of meaninglessness.”

“But if you’re trying to dull the pain that I’m feeling, doesn’t that indicate some sort of sympathy? Or empathy?”

_ Motherfucker. _

“Shut up, James.”

His arms slowly wrap around me, and ugh, it’s so gross. He reeks of cheap shampoo and grief. It’s probably clear to everyone in the room that we don’t hug. He’s got his arms around me in such a way that I can’t raise my arms, so the two of us just stand there awkwardly.

“I think eight seconds is the acceptable length of time for a hug, James.”

He draws in a shuddery breath. _Oh shit, pull yourself together, man._

_Just let him,_ I tell myself. _Just let him cry it out. Then you can leave._

So I stay.

~~

The ride to the mortician’s house is silent. Moran’s uncomfortable with silence, especially with me. He knows what happened to my last chief of staff. He knows in vivid detail because his first assignment as my CoS was to clean up the mess that remained of his predecessor.

The soldier-hunter in him is patient, but the intelligent, anxious child in him is uneasy. The waiting that constitutes much of his job doesn’t help. The apprehension piles on. And I certainly have no intent to rush things to keep my neurotic subordinates happy.

“You want to ask something,” I say after the sixth time I’ve caught him eying me in the rearview mirror.

He hesitates.

“Come on, dear, be a good boy and accept the invitation to ask.”

He’s unsure how to process the pet names. I’ll break him of his heterosexuality yet. Finally, he asks, “Why’d you pay for the funeral?”

I’m equally surprised _by the question_ as I am by my own surprise _at the question_. Sebastian “Basher” Moran, disgraced Colonel and hunter of endangered wildlife, processes things differently. Most employees would be asking why we were on the way to kill a mortician, not why I spent money on a funeral for a child I seemingly have no connection to, save the surname Moriarty.

Why do people keep asking that? Is this what normal people talk about? “Who paid for the funeral?” Perhaps I should slow down the murder rate so that the general population will find something else to fucking talk about.

I think about denying it, but Basher’s observant and a denial will only spur on his curiosity.  Open the door to further questions. He’s been attempting to solve the puzzle that is myself for the year, determining how to avoid being tortured to death. He's clever, Moran. Very self-preservative. Most children of abuse are, I'm told.

He needn’t worry too much--those big, broad shoulders alone are worth keeping him around.

If I denied it, he would counter with he was the one keeping the books. He may not know my name, but he knows some of my major expenses. On a side note, it was adorable how blushy and flustered he got when he discovered my gay BDSM e-subscription. Catholics are really so precious.

“Why do you care?”

He shrugs. “She was a Moriarty.  Guess I’m just . . .” He doesn’t finish because he’s afraid to finish.  He’s not afraid of me, though. He’s afraid of the sentiment behind the end of the question.

I lean up from the back seat so that we’re cheek to cheek. “Just wondering if I killed one of my own?” I smile broadly at him.  I take on his RP accent.  "'Oh, is it the boss's daughter?  Did he kill her?'  Is that what you're asking, Moran? "

He trains his face to remain even, but there’s a tiny hint of distaste in his eyes. Not disgust; it’s not as if he hasn’t killed his share of children and invalids and innocents; just distaste. He has a funny thing about family, which is fascinating considering the years of abuse his father Augustus inflicted on him.

“Guess so.”

“No.”

He nods. I flop back into my seat.  He tries to hide his relief, but I'm much smarter than he is.

“You should buckle up, boss.”

“Drive safely, and it won’t matter, Basher.”

More silence. My brain is loud, rushing through what precludes a family, why I haven’t scheduled my manicure, the supposed importance of touch in humans as a species, why the individual searches for meaning in the void of an unconscious universe, why Basher keeps his hair so damned short, and so on and so on.

“She was my niece.” The words slip out. I look around trying to figure out who said them. My tum feels ill.

He tries not to ask, but his curiosity is high. “Were you close?”

“No.”  _ And I’ll never have the opportunity to be close with her. _ The thought makes my stomach lurch. Ugh, what is going on with my body? Bloody sushi.

“That’s . . . sort of sweet, boss.”

A scream erupts from my throat, burning the sensitive internal tissue. I kick the back of his chair hard enough to knock him forward.

It’s not sweet.

It’s just what people do.

Right?


	2. A Seed

_ March 2009 | Basher’s POV _

I hate the salt air. I hate the way the humidity makes the crates swell, the way the odor of low-tide permeates the warehouse. And most of all, I hate the tedious clean up I'll have to do on my L96 to avoid rust.

But I love the money. The work itself is montonous and boring; at most I rough up a few idiots who think they can cheat the Professor and get away with it. I've yet to kill anyone on one of these recon missions. The Professor likes to make sure everything runs smoothly, ensure he's got good leads, reliable people, the like. While the name Moriarty inspires fear, it also has to inspire confidence. What good is a murderous consultant if he's only good at murdering and not consulting?

Despite his insistence that he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty, he goes undercover like this sometimes. Currently he's masquerading around as some weird bloke in a dai cap named Everett. Everett is nervous with shifty eyes and a stutter that he tries to hide. He asks too many questions and is likely going to get his arse handed to him before the night is over.

General Shan's keeping a close eye on the workers as well. She knows someone is stealing from her, but she doesn't know who. It could be the higher-ups in the gang, or it could be one of these corrupt dockworkers, trying to get a foot in the door to a better life of crime. Loading and unloading cocaine-laced imports doesn't bring in quite as much as you would think.

This is a collaboration project, I suppose. The Kifeesi, the Sun Yee On, and the Russian mafia all working together to bring live goods, drugs, and firearms to Scotland. Honestly, I'm always surprised at the high demand for exotic cats in Fairlie, but to each his own, I suppose.

The still form of one of the workers catches my eye. "Oi," I call out to the disguised Professor, "you're not getting paid to stare at the merchandise!"

His black eyes meet mine, and Everett is completely gone. The glare he gives me is grade-A Moriarty. I glare back. He tilts his head ever so slightly, indicating something on the floor. I bow my head just enough to signal my understanding.

"S-sorry," he shouts back in his faux Welsh accent, Everett taking over the body of Moriarty. "Sorry, sorry, it--ah, it w-won't happen--"

"Shut it and keep working!" I shout back.

"Sorry, sorry," he mutters, tripping over a box in his hurry to keep busy.  The Professor is bloody strange.

I wait a few minutes, keeping my eye on the spot where the Professor had indicated something he wanted. Now that I'm watching, I notice everyone seems to be avoiding it. Whatever the product is, its made the workers slightly uncomfortable. I watch as Shan assassinates one of her guards with expensive, antique chopsticks through his gullet, warning the workers who have stopped to watch that they'll meet the same fate if they don't keep moving. I don't know why; we're well ahead of schedule. The customs officials we paid off likely won't be back for at least four hours. (I didn't kill them, and they aren't around, so I assume they were paid off. Shan could've made quick work of them, though.  I’m actually a bit envious of her efficiency.)

When I finally meander my way to the spot where Moriarty signaled he wanted something, I'm flabbergasted to discover the object in question is a small human.

"Holy shit," I breathe. Oh my God, it reeks. I'm not sure it is even alive. Its eyes are shut, and its perfectly still. I don't see any signs of breath. It doesn't look well. Blisters and rash cover its skin, and it's unnervingly thin for an infant. I don't want to touch it lest I contract whatever disease it’s carrying.

I reach out to touch its bare skin, expecting to be met with the chill of death, but it's blazing hot. As soon as my finger tips graze its forehead, giant black eyes open to meet mine. Frankly, it scares the hell out of me. A weak cough escapes its lips, and those eyes shut again.

I look around, trying to find "Everett" in the crowd. No luck. I lift the strange creature up, waste leaking out of its clearly-soiled nappy. I want to vomit. I take it outside and clean it to the best of my ability, wrapping its lower half in a jacket I find in an unlocked locker. It doesn't cry, just coughs and occasionally wheezes.

I place some plastic down in my rifle bag, followed by the baby. "If you shit on anything in here besides the plastic, I'm tossing you into the ocean," I tell it.

I don't know what the Professor wants with a baby. My stomach churns as I think about his inclinations for sadism. I don't know anything about his sexual habits. Maybe that's his thing. I shake that thought away. He doesn't pay me to be his conscience; he pays me to make sure he can do whatever the hell he wants.

I'm not a good man. Neither is he. No one is here because they're some Robin Hood character, stealing from the rich to feed the poor or working some underground railroad to get sex slaves to freedom. The only reason a baby would be in this shipment is if someone had a plan for it.

I shrug it off.

The Professor can have it. I won't say a word.

~~

The Professor is  _ murmuring _ to it. _  Sweetly. Kindly. _ I look at him through the rearview mirror. He catches my baffled expression and snaps, "Eyes on the road, Basher."

I obey, rolling my eyes and sighing.

"You're gonna be a pretty girl, aren't you? We'll get rid of all those nasty blisters, yes we will, yes we will. And you're gonna be daddy's little princess."

My stomach rolls again. "Boss?"

"Yes?" he answers in that weird sing-song coo.  His attention remains fixated on the barely-living thing he brought into my car.

"What the hell?"

"Don't swear in front of the baby, Basher!" he growls.

It's all I can do not to spin around and gape at him. I pull off to the side and park before looking him dead in the eyes through the rearview mirror.

Those huge black eyes.

"Look, I don't care what you do with it, yeah? But I don't want to know about it, okay?" I hope he gets the insinuation.

He tilts his head like a lizard trying to understand its prey. There's a long silence. "I'm a psychopath," he says lowly and reasonably, "not a paedophile."

I take a few deep breaths. I'm annoyed at how much that confession comforts me. Even after ten years of violence and sex and miscellaneous sin, I suppose I’m still bound by certain Christian virtues.

"So . . . what are you going to do with it?"

" _ She _ is going to be my daughter!" he says, tone bizarrely gleeful.

I snort. "No one's gonna believe that, Prof."

He frowns at me. "And just why the hell not?"

"Well, one, because she's black."

"I could have a black daughter!"

"Not with that pasty white skin, you couldn't!"

He frowns at me.  The Professor won’t admit it, but he’s bitter that he can’t tan.  "I could've just adopted her! They don't always match up the skin color!"

"Why would you do that?!"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you're Moriarty! The Consulting Criminal! The Professor of the Underground!"

"Well, maybe Rich Brook wants to adopt a baby! Or Jim from IT. Or Alan...since his wife died, he's been so sad." He smirks in the mirror. In case it's not apparent, the Professor has several different identities that I know of and many more that I probably don’t.

"Yes, but Alan is about to be kidnapped by the Czechs, remember?"

"I've been thinking about that . . . .  I don't think that's the best way to start a gang war. I think if we're going to rid Paris of the Romanian mob--" He doesn't finish his sentence because the baby starts into a coughing fit. "Oh no, no, no, that just won't do, little miss," he cooes, resting her head on his shoulder so he can pat her back. "Basher, get to a pharmacy. This little one's sick as she can be, yes she is, yes she is." His tone turns harsh as he kicks at my seat. "Move the fucking vehicle, you stupid shit!"

"Oh for God's sake." I don't want a dead baby in the automobile, so I do as I'm told.

When the car starts to move again, and the baby has stopped coughing, the Professor says very softly, "I think I'll call you . . . hm, Stella? No, no, no, that's hideous, isn't it, dear? We don't need some abusive maniac shouting at you from the street when you grow up, do we? No, no, no. Hm . . . I quite like the name Dorothy."

I turn on the radio. Now that I know Moriarty's not a baby-rapist, I can be contentedly disgusted with his paternal affinity for the unwanted offspring we found on the docks. Fucking weirdo. Seriously, he spends all this time and energy and billions of pounds to build this massive empire, to write coding that could take down the free world, to create dozens of identities to play with, and somehow that's not enough. For some reason, he decides he needs to have a child.

He'll probably toss it in a church or a police station when he gets bored with it. If he doesn't shove it into a wood chipper first.

"Let me out here," he says. I pull over to the side and stop the car. "You drive 'round for a bit, while I get Dorothy--ugh, no I don't like that name anymore--Aoife some paracetamol.  And a carseat. Hold the little one."

He's reaching over the front seats to hand me the infant. I hold my hands as far away from it as possible. "Fuck. No."

"It's just a baby," he scoffs.

"Its shitty and pissy and covered in sores!"

"So are you, Basher. You'll get along fine."

"I'm not covered in sores!"

"You will be if you keep seeing that whore Anisa."

"She's a callgirl. And one of yours, thank you very much."

"Health records aren't unforgeable, Basher," he says with a devious grin. "Now take the babe, you're holding up traffic. Mind her head."

"How am I supposed to drive  _and_ hold a baby?"

"You're a smart lad," he grins, "you'll figure it out."


	3. The Second Good Deed of Jim Moriarty

_September 2009 | Jim’s POV_

Normally, I wouldn’t send my second in command to handle minutia but there’s something about Basher that I just love to humiliate and anger. He needs to be broken in; he’s much too prideful. Typical Englishman.

He is positively gorgeous, though. Maybe not so much in the face, but those arms and that tight bum. . .

Anyway, I’ve sent him out to meet with a homicidal cabdriver on my behalf. Can’t get my hands dirty, you know, especially now that I’ve partnered with the Black Lotus Tong, and MI-5’s gotten suspicious about the circus. Not that I’m traceable in any way, except that Shan knows the name Moriarty.  (A lot of people know my name--lots of a shady undesirables who dwell in London’s “underworld.” They come to me for help.)

While I’m getting my hair done (damned greys!), Basher will be meeting with this Jeff Hope man.  A soft mewl emanates from my phone, the ringtone I've designated for my Chief of Staff.  

_4:46 p.m. Someone else could’ve taken this._

I smile at the screen. His presumptuousness is cute, but I really can’t let it go on. People will start to talk. If word gets out that Moriarty's soft on an employee because he's handsome, disobedience will spread.  People won't be afraid, and, oh, they  _really should be_.  

Basher is painfully predictable; he’ll start to sweat if I don’t answer, so I don’t. He’ll call when Hope arrives, and he’ll have a much better attitude, and I do so like my subordinates manageable.

Beside me, in her pram, Evelyn is sleeping soundly. Strange sensations bubble up in my stomach when I think about how often she sleeps. “Worried” as they say. I’m “worried” about her.

I “worry” about her all the time.

Being a father is the absolute worst decision I’ve ever saddled myself with, and yet the thought of dumping her somewhere makes my head pound and my heart race. In complete diametric opposition, the sound of her snoring softly beneath her blankets makes me feel like I’ve finally lost that pesky five pounds.

The call comes in at 5:00 p.m. on the dot. Hope, of course, thinks he’s meeting with me, and since he has no idea what I look like, Basher is a wonderful surrogate. He’s scarred, vicious, and strong. Nonetheless, I don’t trust Basher to make decisions that benefit my work; he’s delusional about morals and emotions, so it’s best to feed him the words while he looks frightening.

Hope opens with, “I’ve heard terrible things about you.” He thinks he’s clever, like this is how people talk in the criminal world. Idiot.

“Hardly the best way to start a meeting, Mr. Hope,” I say into the phone. Basher repeats it back quickly, so there’s virtually no delay. He’s a good boy.

“What can I do for you, _Moriarty_?” He thinks using my name gives him power. I’m not a fairy, and this isn’t the Dark Ages.

“ _Professor_ will do, Jeff.” Basher imitating my inflection to perfection makes me grin. Oh, he really is such a good pet. A bit rebellious, but he’s matching my wavelength, even if he doesn’t fully grasp my thought processes or my motivations or even me.  (Hell, I don’t really either, save for my drive to find a _distraction from this monotonous existence_.)

Keer, my hairdresser, raises their eyebrows at my grin, but they’ve known me long enough not to ask. They don’t know what I do, but they know I’m very private. And they’re very discreet. I wave them away.

“It’s more what I can do for you, my dear.” Basher stumbles over the epithet, but only a little. Straight men are so odd about things like that. “I was very impressed how quickly you offered my employees advice on dumping a body, and I thought to myself, ‘You know what? There’s a man with no concern for his own well-being or the well-being of others.’ So I’ve been watching you, Jefferson. And I think I have the perfect assignment for you.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then you won’t have to wait for the aneurysm to kill you.”

There’s a silence.

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you know about that.”

“You also shouldn’t be surprised that I know about your offspring.”

“If you come near--”

“Shut it. Don’t interrupt me again, Mr. Hope. I’m not a patient man, and I’m doing this as a favor to you. Be more appreciative.”

“And just what are you doing?”

“You know what’s boring, Mr. Hope? London. It’s been over a year since the last terror attack. People are flitting about, living their lives, unafraid of the big bad world. All those nasty bombings and beheadings are happening Over There. I hate monotony. I hate how London gets when no one’s afraid. So, I have a proposition for you.”

Hope hesitates. “What? You want me to be a terrorist?”

“No, no, no, as a white man you’d never be labelled as a terrorist, especially not with your health issues. No, I want you to be a good, old-fashioned serial killer.”

“Sorry?”

“I want you to kill people. And for every person you kill, I’ll set aside money for your kiddies.”

Hope waits, thinking it over.

“I’m a very busy man, Jeff. You can take the offer on or you can die, but the call has to be made in the next five seconds. I have things to do.”

“How much?”

I laugh. “I’m very rich. And you’re very angry. Must we assign numbers to our situation?”

“Five thousand pounds per child. Per murder.”

I roll my eyes. “I never pay anyone more than it would cost to murder them. You kill two people, suddenly I’m in the red. But I’m feeling generous. Five thousand it is, but make it fun. Impress me, Jefferson. If you disappoint me, I’ll kill you.”

~~

Evelyn’s asleep on my chest. I can feel her ribcage expand with every breath she takes. She’s ruined my favorite suit with spit-up, and I’m annoyed at my absent desire to shove her in the garbage disposal. Instead, I find I’m relieved that she won’t be dealing with tummy discomfort for the rest of the night.

Her tiny fist has grasped the sleeve of my robe. She’s just holding it. Holding on to me.

Frankly, it’s terrifying all the weird chemicals and hormones and signals firing off in my brain. It’s been terrifying for the last six months. But there must be a reward element to them, because I keep coming back to her. I keep not leaving her. I fear I’m stuck with her. Permanently.

Basher’s drunk-calling, apparently. I’m not surprised that he’s drunk-calling; he drinks a lot when he’s not gambling or fucking. I am surprised, though, that he’s calling little old me.

It’s a with an amused annoyance that I answer, careful not to stir Evelyn. “Hello, sexy.”

“Shuddup, boss.”

“Careful, Moran. You called me, and you’re not hard to replace.”

“It’s killin’ me, boss. Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Again, you called me.”

“No, why are you payin’ him to kill people?”

“Are you jealous that I have other assassins?”

“No! I just don’t unnerstand!”

“I don’t pay you to understand.”

“The cabbie! Why are you givin’ his rugrats money?”

“Because London needs a serial killer.”

“But why the kids?”

“It’s a good motivator.”

“He didn’t need motivation. You know he didn’t need motivation!”

“Stop yelling, Basher.”

“I’m s’posed to be signin’ the cheques, ‘nd I just don’t get it. I mean, that’s an outrageous expense, Boss.  I really gotta advise against this.”

“That is not your concern, Bash. Just keep my staff paid and kill them when I ask.”

“Iss a bad investment!”

“I don’t pay you for financial advice, darling. I’m hanging up now. Kisses.”

He calls back, but I don’t answer.

I don’t get it either. I don’t give a shit about Hope’s kids. I don’t give a shit about him. I don’t give a shit about London, not really.

Only, when I think about being separated from Evelyn, everything inside of me aches. And Jefferson Hope can never see his kids. He hasn’t the money to fight the custody agreement. (Is it possible I feel sorry for him?  Is it possible to suddenly develop empathy after thirty-three years of its absence? That sort of thing does happen with cancer, so. . .)

And I feel vomitty when I think about why Evelyn might’ve been in that shipment, when I think about what might’ve happened to her if I hadn’t kept her.

I shouldn’t take her with me to get my hair done. The chemicals can’t possibly be good for a nine-month-old. Maybe that was part of her indigestion.

It doesn’t matter what my motivations are. I’ve made my deal with Jefferson Hope. Maybe the Homicide and Serious Crime Command will call in that Sherlock fellow. I enjoy watching him work. The fact that the Hope children will be cared for is inconsequential. Valueless.

I'm stirring the English pot of chaos, and that's all that really matters. That's the only lasting impact.


	4. Pumpkin Spice Latte Assassination: Bonding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck you, I do what I want.

_October 2009 | Basher’s POV_

The Boss is much more fidgety than usual, and it’s distracting. He’s never accompanied me on a kill outside of the UK before, and I’m not sure why he’s here now except that he insisted on joining me.

He taps his toes on the hard cement of the roof, putting my nerves on eedge.

“Boss!”

“Watch your attituuuude,” he chirps, eyes still glued to his mobile.

“You’re really throwing me off.” I try to sound calm and patient and not annoyed, but Christ, the Professor is annoying.

He keeps tapping.

“Boss, please?”

He looks up to give me a death glare. The tapping stops. “Does it always take you this long to murder someone?”

I grit my teeth to keep from shouting at the little shit. “I wanna do this job right, and I’ve not had a lot of time to do the research, and I’m really not familiar with Seattle’s weather patterns.”

“You knew we were coming; why didn’t you do your research?”

“I only found out we were coming to Seattle twelve hours ago. And I was drunk up until the last six.”

The Professor feigns sympathy. “Oh, you’re hungover. That’s why this is taking so long.”

 _I could literally blow a hole in your abdomen right now the size of your passport._ I don’t say that of course because truthfully my employer terrifies me.

I _am_ hungover. My head aches and my guts are all squirmy and gross and acidic. The haze of Seattle and the bariatric pressure of the looming rains certainly don’t help my pounding skull.

“You should drink less.”

“I wasn’t expecting to be called to go to Seattle on my day off.”

“You don’t have ‘days off’, Moran. You have days where it’s unlikely that I’ll have an assignment for you, but you’re always on call.”

That’s what happens when you make a deal with the devil. The next time I sign on with a criminal mastermind, I’m making a few stipulations.

And then the moment hits. The wind has stopped, the clouds have moved just enough that the moon’s glow is decipherable from the street lamps and lights from the surrounding buildings, and I can make out the bald head of my victim in the window.

Oh my God, this is going to be beautiful. My heart pounds. Deep breath in. Finger on the trigger. Perfect shot.

“Oh my God!” the boss groans. “I just really need a pumpkin spice latte.”

The moment vanishes, and I am absolutely furious.  I taste metal. I want to shove the fucker right off the building. I’m about to. “Are you _fucking_ kidding me?!”

He leans dangerously over the roof, searching the streets. “That Starbucks is open twenty-four hours a day. Let’s go get lattes.”

I gape at him. “No!”

“Why not?” He seems genuinely surprised by the answer.

“Because I’m not a fifteen-year-old girl!” I return my attention to the victim in my scope. I can’t fire now. It’d hit the mirror once it went through him, and that would be a lot of trouble in retrieving the shell.  Also, and perhaps I'm being a bit snobby about this, but I like simple, elegant crime scenes.  I don't like anything to shatter.  Keep the scene tasteful, save for quiet red puddles and a bit of crimson spatter.  Like a still life that just happened to contain a murder.  Those are my favorites.

“Neither am I.”

“Then you certainly don’t need a pumpkin pie latte.”

“Pumpkin _spice_ , you Philistine.”

I take a deep breath, trying to keep calm. “Boss, you’re really throwing me off here.”

“You know, you’re really not a very good sniper.  In fact, I’d venture to say that you’re a terrible sniper.”

“I was the best sniper in the British Army, you--” Clenching my fist, I cut off that sentence. Being found on the roof of a Holiday Inn in Seattle, Washington is not included in my ideal obituary. “Boss, please. I’m begging you. I can’t work if you’re going to be like this.”

“Why are you taking so loooooong?”

“Because that’s what happens on the job.”

“My last Chief of Staff didn’t take this long.”

“Was your last Chief of Staff a sniper?”

“No.”

“Did he kill people?”

“Yes.”

“From a distance?”

“No.” His eyes trail back to the Starbucks logo, blurred by the fog.  

We sit in silence.  I reposition the rifle, then the scope.  We may actually get this finished before the sun rises.  _Oh wait, yes, just a half-step to the right, and the bullet will cut clear through the window, through the skull, and a quick fluke of red will--_  

“Have you ever even _had_ a pumpkin spice latte?”

“Oh. My. God.”  Rage temporarily blinds me.

“Because they’re really fucking tasty.”  He gives me his condescending Moriarty sideways frown.  

“Professor, go get one. I think it’ll be good for you. And for the job.”

“No,” he hisses. “I’m doing an observation.”

“Observers aren’t usually this goddamn chatty!”

I sense the change in his mood. He’s eyes flash, and his smile vanishes.  He's head swivels in that weird reptilian way.  He’s pissed. He smacks his lips. “What was that? Sebastian?”  He leans closer to me, daring me to aggravate him further.

I backtrack as fast as I can.  “Sir, you’ve got to give me room to work. And I can’t work if you’re talking to me.”

“Didn’t realize you were such a sensitive little snowflake,” he mocks me. He returns his attention to his phone.

I wait. The winds are kicking up again, which is bad news for me. The clouds seem to be moving over the moon again. Maybe I could overcompensate for the winds. . .

 _Wait_. He’s in a perfect position to be killed. I could do it. I think I can manage. . .

_Deep breath._

“Have you ever even had a latte?”

“PROFESSOR!” I roar before I can think to stop myself.

“That’s probably why you’re so damned irritable. You’re just full of scotch and other depressants.”  He’s purposely trying to piss me off now. Probably trying to find a reason to murder me.

“Boss,” I say as coolly as I can, given how shot my nerves are, “I have coffee every morning.”

“Yes, but you take it black. I thought it was the years of abuse you endured as a child, but I’m starting to think your bitterness comes from your coffee.”

“Professor, do you actually want this man dead?”

“No more than I want a pumpkin spice latte.”

“Then go get one.”

A tight, lethal smile.  “I will after you do your damned job.”

At this point, I’m about to shoot myself in the head.  It’d be a quick and easy out for whatever torture session Moriarty has planned to be rid of me.  Jumping off the roof may actually be surviveable, and if someone called for help fast enough, perhaps first responders could reach me before Moriarty does.

“I don’t pay you to lollygag on rooftops,” he continues.

“Is this a test? Are you testing me to see how patient I can be? Or if I perform well under pressure? Or if I can control my temper? Or is this punishment for being hungover?”

He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Basher, that’s ridiculous. I can’t punish you for being hungover. I can punish you for getting drunk. Consuming too much whiskey is a decision you made. Being hungover is just a consequence. I can’t punish you for a consequence. Just the action that leads up to the consequence.”

“Your logic is flawed, but I can’t figure out how.”

He gives it a thought, then concedes. “I suppose ‘can’t’ is a strong verb. ‘Wouldn’t.’ That fits better. I wouldn’t punish you for a consequence. I could. And I can, but I won’t.”  A tight serpentine smile.

I have to think about this. I check the sight once again to buy myself some time. “But Ludovic.” Long story short, Ludovic was a drug runner who fucked up. Moriarty told him if the Nigerians found out, he’d kill him. If they didn’t, he wouldn’t.

“Well, that wasn’t so much punishment as it was chance, was it?”

I turn around to face him. “Okay, but let’s say I jump off this building. If I hit the ground--”

“I love that you say ‘if’, as if there’s a chance you wouldn’t hit the ground if you jumped off this building.” He giggles like a little girl. I wonder if he’s on the upswing of a manic episode. I don’t think about the Boss often, but when I do, I’m usually trying to figure out what the hell’s going on in there. Currently, I’m thinking bipolar disorder?

“When I hit the ground, you’d punish me for hitting the ground.”

“That is bloody ridiculous, Basher, you’d be dead.”

I rub my eyes. I can’t figure out if I want a fag, a shot, or water. Maybe all three. “Assuming I lived. What would be the reason I’d be in trouble?”

“Your stupidity, I’d say.”

“No, I’d be in trouble because I hit the ground!”

Once more, his demeanor changes rapidly. Suddenly, his black eyes are blazing and boring into mine. I shudder.  He’s smaller than me, but there’s something wrong with the boss, you see. Pain doesn’t affect him. He’s got a pain insensitivity, I think, and if you can’t hurt someone, you can’t best them in a fight. And I’ve seen what Moriarty can do with a pocket knife. I’ve had to clean up after him. “You’re an idiot. Hitting the ground is the natural consequence of jumping off the building. I can’t expect you to defy the laws of physics, but I can expect you to be aware of them and not tempt gravity!”

I need to think about that. I turn back to the rifle. The mark is out of sight. FUCK.  I just want to go to bed.

“Let’s say I take a shot, but I miss the target. Am I in trouble because I missed or because the target is still alive?”

He jumps from his seat behind me and stomps over to me, grabbing my collar. “Why the hell does it matter? Everyone wants to assign meaning and cause to everything.  More often than not, _there is no cause_!”

My temper is threatening to explode. “YOU. ARE. THE ONE. THAT MADE THE DISTINCTION!”

He shoves me backward, releasing his grasp of my shirt.  He paces back and forth, ranting. “There you go again, assigning blame and cause. I was just saying it was stupid to punish someone because they’re hungover, but you have to get all philosophical about it.” He scrubs his hands over his face. “I just want a pumpkin spice latte.”

“Well, I wanna go to bed, but neither of those things is gonna happen as long as you keep talking while I’m trying to take the shot.”

Suddenly, flirtation is painted on his face, the rage completely absent. “Bed? But we work together,” he says, purposefully dramatic, swooning.

Confused and disgusted, I turn back to the mark.

It’s the perfect shot. It’s now or never. I want to go to sleep. And maybe throw up everything I drank in the last twenty-four hours.

The bullet glides through the air seamlessly, like a shark attacking its prey. The glass doesn’t even shatter. There’s just a hole in the glass and a beautiful splatter on the white carpet of the mark’s room. The mattress stopped the shell, meaning an easy retrieval. It’s perfect. Holy fuck, it’s gorgeous.  I mean, just. . . if I could frame that entire kill, I would.

I turn to the Professor, smug as hell. “How’s that, boss?”

He’s on his mobile, not paying a bit of attention.  He looks up at me the way a snake looks up to investigate something unusual. “There’s not even pumpkin in the pumpkin spice lattes.” He looks through me with deep, deep disgust. “What the hell have I been drinking?”

I’m shouting at the top of my lungs.  “Were you even watching!?”

“Of course not.”  His disgust at the mystery ingredients of his latte gone, he prances to the stairwell.  “Come along, Moran. It’s latte time.”

“I’ll pass.”

“No you woooon’t.”

~~

I stare at the white cup, watching steam rise from the rectangular hole on the lid's edge. "Boss. Are you serious?"  I hate how much I sound like I’m whining.

The Professor's knife jabs a bit deeper into my skin. The skin's not broken yet, but if he keeps pushing it will. Jesus, I wish he would.  "I'd really rather you not bleed all over Starbucks, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to shank someone in a coffee shop."

"You know what, Boss?  Just do it. I don’t even care"

He gives me an annoyed look.  It frightens me more than I can to admit.  He sings out in his flirty Moriarty way. " _Drink your goddamned pumpkin spice latte_."

I hope to God it's poisoned.


	5. Germination

_March 2010 | Basher’s POV_

"I need you to watch Evelyn."

I blink rapidly. "And Evelyn is a . . . ?"

"My daughter."

Scratching the back of my neck, I check the name on the caller ID. Sure enough, it reads "The Professor." I sigh. "You kept it?"

"Oh my God, Basher, I don't have time for this. I'm coming in."

The door to my flat bursts open, revealing my boss dressed as “Jim from IT” and pushing a pram. I'm unnerved that he's gotten into my building without being buzzed in, but I shouldn't be surprised. Still, my sense of safety in my own home seems diminished. I stand closer to him, using my height to tower over him. If he's going to intimidate me, even inadvertently, I'm going to intimidate back. The fact is, in a fair fight, I could snap that little Irish twig in two. But the Professor doesn't fight fair, so I can't risk making a move. He stares up at me, unimpressed. "Problem, Tiger?"

Without meaning to, my face contorts into a scowl. That's specifically Anisa's name for me. Has she been blabbing to him about our sex life or has he simply been spying? That sense of intrusion deepens. "Don't fuckin' call me that."

He grins at my discomfort, and offers the following explanation. "Listen, darling, I have a date, and—"

"I absolutely do not care."

His smile tightens, sending chills down my spine.  He blinks twice, then tilts his head like some sort of reptile.  "You have to watch Evelyn." He shoves the pram against my knees.

"No fucking way." I shove it back.

The calm veneer snaps, and he shouts, "You don't have a choice!" His eyes shine with something murderous.

"Oh my God, can't someone else watch it? I don't know a thing about babies."

"You've two neices and three nephews. Surely you've interacted with at least one of them."

"Wrong. Carrie and I haven't spoken since I was deployed the first time."

The information doesn't faze him. He sets the bag of nappies on the floor, then quickly turns. "I'll be back around midnight. There's a schedule in the bag, and some FAQs should you need them." He bends over the pram to address the child who has probably doubled in size since I saw it last. It jumps with delight, weird little hands reaching out to touch his face. "I've got to go, sweetheart. Can you say 'bye bye'?"

It lets out a painfully shrill squeal.  The Professor is equally delighted. "Bye bye, princess. Say 'bye bye'."

It answers back with something that's not quite "buh buh" but Moriarty is thrilled nonetheless.  “Oh, you’re so smart! Yes you are! Yes you are!  Such a smart little lady.” He plants kisses all over its face, and it giggles, making smooching sounds in return, but its lips don't actually make contact with him. It's the most bizarre thing I've ever seen.  Have I stepped into the Twilight Zone?

The Consulting Criminal gets to his feet, and without even so much as a glance my way, he starts for the door.

Without thinking, I grab the door handle, pulling it to stay open, the Professor still clinging to the opposite handle. "No. I draw the line here, boss."

He laughs lightly and pats my face. "You don't get to do that, Basher. Only I do."  His black eyes meet mine.

Another shiver runs down my spine. Something about those black eyes triggers this memory I have from when I was a kid, this terrible moment in my childhood revolving around a bunch of kittens trapped in a storm drain, and the deep uneasy feeling that was rooted in my gut for days afterwards. I couldn’t go anywhere for help because Augustus had forbidden pets in the house, and going to him meant admitting that I’d been keeping them.  He might've made me shoot them, the same way he'd made me shoot the puppy.

They were all so small, so helpless. So was I.

So is this kid.

I shake my head, setting my jaw and shoulders. "If you're not back by eleven, I'll hurl it out the window."

The Professor chuckles again. "No you won't," he sings and shuts the door before I can counter.

And suddenly I'm alone with the reject child that we found on the docks in Seaton. It’s very unlike Moriarty to want something that no one else wants. I always assumed that what drove him was envy and the desire to control what others needed. Maybe I was wrong.

Despite spending most of my time on assignment for him, I don't think about the Professor often.  Frankly, I don't want to be thinking of him now.

I look back at the kid. The weed. Moriarty had literally found a weed that someone had plucked from its home soil and tossed it aside. No one ever asked about the baby. No report was ever filed. It hadn't been lovingly cared for, so it wasn't worth much in a black market adoption.

This kid is a fucking weed.

And now it is in my flat, because, for the moment at least, Moriarty doesn’t want it either.  Jesus, I hope he doesn’t leave it here. I know how I’ve disposed of unwanted babies in the past, but that was always for pay—I’m not entirely sure my Catholic conscience would permit me to slaughter a baby for free.

A minute or two passes, and I realize its giant black eyes are on the door. I shrug and leave it in its pram exactly where the Professor had parked it. Once I'm settled on the sofa with a beer and some crisps, ready to watch _Top Gear_ and read whatever I'd saved on my reading list, it proceeds to freak the _hell_ out.

I groan, switching off the television, closing my laptop. In no particular hurry, I make my way through the kitchen to the foyer before the door. The thing is bright red from screeching, its eyes all squinty and wet. "Hey," I say softly, actually somewhat afraid to speak. "Hey," I say again, feeling bolder. It keeps screaming. "Heeey!" I say a third time, and the screams soften to whines for the briefest of moments. Its eyes open a little, peering at me through long black lashes. "What the hell's your problem, eh?"

More hellish screaming makes me jump back and cover my ears. "Jesus Christ, stop it!" It's a godawful sound. Several mutations and evolutions over the course of the history of mankind have made it damn near impossible to ignore the screams of an infant. It's purposely jarring. Unnerving. Fuck evolution.

 _Fuck Moriarty_.

I didn't think it was possible, but the cries pitch up again, and I feel like my eardrums should be bleeding. Instinctively, I kick at the pram, only considering the consequences of actually injuring Moriarty’s weedchild just before fully booting her against the door. I catch myself in time so that just my toe knocks the legs of the device, sending her back against the door with a short jolt.

It stops the tears. Its eyes open wide, as if the two of us have been the first to discover inertia and momentum. A wet giggle sounds softly. Seeing the snot slip down its filtrum makes me want to gag. I run back to the kitchen to grab some paper towels. Unfortunately, being a single man who has other things to do besides the shopping, I don't have paper towels.

"Fuck. Your daddy's gonna be bringing me paper towels, you hear me, little girl?" I shout, grabbing a sponge that's on the sink. It's just for show, really. It's pretty rare that I have reason to do dishes. I own maybe five plates, a couple of mugs, and some water bottles.  Do I even own a fork? I think I have maybe a spoon for when Anisa spends the night and wants to stir milk into her tea in the morning.

Expecting a baby who is barely aware of its own arms to wipe its nose with a sponge is stupid, but I find myself tossing the sponge into the carrier nonetheless. "Here. Wipe your nose." All sound stops as the baby does its best to investigate. It holds the sponge between its palms, oblivious as to how to bend its fingers and get a proper grip. Meh, it'll figure it out.

Flopping back on the sofa, I resume whatever I was doing on the computer. Apparently I was reading about deaths on Mt. Everest.

And now I wish I was dead on Mt. Everest because Moriarty's damned hellspawn starts squawking again. God, it's grating. I can literally feel every decibel in my goddamn spine. "Shut the hell up!"

Surprisingly, that does not work.

I dash back to the foyer, hands over my ears. The sponge is apparently no longer interesting. The wrinkles in its face are so deep it looks painful. My head aches just looking at it. "Stop," I hiss, nudging my foot against the carrier so that it rocks back and forth. This is, apparently, the greatest thing in the entire world, because it is losing its fucking mind laughing, which is almost as annoying as the screaming, minus that bizarre visceral reaction it causes me.

"You're really fucked up if you laugh when you're being abused."

Her--its--bright black eyes meet mine. The blood that's pooled in her head from the screaming has emphasized the mostly invisible scars on her face, and I realize that she is looking much better than the last time I saw her. It. Her.

She squeals out in pleasure. "No!" I squeal back. "No, no, no, we don't scream like that."

She lifts her pudgy little arms, waving them in the air, like she wants to be picked up.

“Hah,” I scoff at her.  “Sorry to disappoint you, love, but that’s not happening.”  

With a sinking feeling in my gut, I realize that she has a long brown scar starting below her collar bone creeping across the underside of her left arm. The thought of what might've happened to the unwanted child makes me cringe.

I crouch down beside her, holding her wrist up to study the mark. The feel of her skin is vastly different than last time. Smooth, a decent temperature. The scent of baby powder permeates the air, a drastic improvement to the old-shit-and-vomit smell she had when I first met her. Her tiny hand wriggles out of my grip just enough to wrap her pudgy fingers around my thumb. My entire being tenses, and I have no goddamn idea why. I have a bizarre urge to squeal. This fucking weed is too damn cute. Too damn trusting.

The thumb she's holding dug a man's eyeball out of his skull _yesterday_. She has no idea. And her instinct to hold onto someone isn't at all marred by the fact that a year ago she was sliced up and abandoned in the hot sun and blistering sea air.

A chill crosses over me.

When the Professor answers his phone, it's obvious by the Gloria Gaynor blasting in the background that he's at a nightclub. "Yasss?" he shouts into the phone. I can hear the ridiculous false grin on his face.

"Did you cut her?"

He laughs. "Oh, sweetheart, of course not," he lilts. "Did my big bad tiger get worried about the wee one?"

I believe him. I'm relieved.  “No.”

His voice drops, losing its effervescence, and the music fades. He's stepped somewhere quieter. "How is she?" There's something solemn and threatening in his voice.

"Why don't you come get her and find out?"

"Don't get smart, Basher. Have you even looked through the list?"

"Er, not yet."

"Fucking read it," he hisses, "and call me after she's had supper."

The call ends.

I'm alone with her again.

"Evelyn, you want some food?"


	6. The Bridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit y'all, there's, like a whole thing about brogue vs. lilt and I can't even handle it. I changed the word to lilt in this chapter because what even the fuck. Words are so damn hard all the time.

_April 2010 | Basher’s POV_

I've only heard the name Sherlock Holmes from the Professor, but apparently, he's sort of a big deal because of this blogger. And when I say "this blogger" I mean this short, angry out-of-work doctor who, two hours ago, was in the passenger's seat of one of Moriarty's HVAC cover business vans, cursing up a storm. He gave me one hell of a punch, too, before I drugged him. At the time, I was furious.  Currently, I'm impressed. That little guy’s packing a lot of strength in that tacky jumper. I will definitely have a black eye.

I’m not sure what the Professor is up to, but he’s got me in the rafters of a gym above a swimming pool. His rugrat is in a playpen against the wall behind me. A couple of other snipers surround the pool as well, some on the second floor track, some on the roofs of surrounding buildings and some in janitorial closets nearby. Of course, I'm alone, because apparently Moriarty doesn't want anyone to know about his daughter.

In my earpiece, Moriarty is ordering Dr. Blogger to remain still, assuring him he'll get to see his "BEE EFF EFF" very soon. There's actually two frequencies on my earpiece, one for general use that all the snipers have access to, and one for emergency use (ie, Evelyn gets sick), which only the two of us have access to. Weirdly, I feel a bit special that I'm the only one of his employees that knows about the little one. I mean, it's possible (and likely) that that's not true, that all the other snipers know about her, but I’m the only one with the second frequency.

The gawky detective meanders into the pool area. There's something inherent about the weird bastard that makes me want to beat the shit out of him. I don't know what it is, but some people just have a face that makes you want to hit them. He sure as hell does. Maybe that's why the Professor is obsessed with him; I'm roughly eighty-seven percent sure that everyone wanted to beat the shit out of him too when he was in school. Two super-geniuses who no one likes meeting at a pool at midnight. I'm pretty sure my sister Carrie read a romance novel like that in the 80s.

I hear a very soft coo behind me. I turn to see Evelyn, standing up but leaning on the post of the playpen, watching me with bright black eyes. God, it's bizarre how much she looks like the Professor. Her gaze is so intense. In my earpiece, The Professor is ordering Dr. Blogger to walk into the pool area.

"Uh, hi," I whisper.

She purses her lips like she's going to shush me, but rather than bringing up a single finger to do so, she brings up all ten, splaying them across her lips.

I point at her. "Right. Gotcha. Gotta be quiet." I turn back to the weird detective. His angry doctor/soldier/blogger has appeared, and they're chatting about God knows what. "Hi, I'm the Doctor, and I've gotta bomb strapped to my chest," I whisper to myself, chuckling. I do a mean Sylvester McCoy impression.

"Bomb bomb bomb," Evelyn babbles behind me.

"Shush," I hiss at her.

Her bottom lip sticks out, and I worry for a second that she's about to start wailing like she did at my flat, but the Irish lilt radiating from the pool makes her smile. I can't explain it other than instinct, but I can tell she's about to shout "Papa" or "dada" or whatever the hell she calls the boss, so I leap to the pen, lifting her up and covering her mouth, hoping none of the other snipers can see me.

"Jim Moriarty. Hiiii."

I nearly drop the kid. "His name is Jim?" I mouth. Evelyn's arms reach out for him. I reach into her playpen for her dummy and shove it into her mouth. "That cannot be true."

If Jim was the name he was using with the Hooper woman, why does he continue to use it? Surely his name is not actually "Jim." That'd be fucking ridiculous. Who's afraid of a man named Jim?

"Professor Jim, Consulting Criminal, PhD," I mouth, trying not to cackle. Maybe I shouldn't have had that fourth shot before coming to an assassination for the boss.

"Dada!" Evelyn squeals through the dummy in her mouth.

Again, I cover her mouth. My hand covers her entire face.  "Oh my God, shut the fuck up, what is wrong with you?"

"Bomb bomb bomb," she murmurs against my hand.

"Child, be quiet."

She waves her hand, then starts to pout when he doesn't wave back. I get the distinct impression that Moriarty’s doing his damnedest not to look upwards where he knows we’re stationed.  

Oh God, she's gonna start crying again. I'm not even afraid that she's gonna give us away; I just don't wanna hear that godawful screeching. I bounce her on my hip, trying not to jar my rifle too much. "Hush, hush, hush, Evelyn, you're fine."

One of the snipers from the walking track pipes up through my earpiece. "Stripes, what in the hell are you aiming at?"

Ugh, the red light from my scope is pointing the wrong fucking way.  "Dealing with something."

"The hostage's got the Professor by the throat."

I look back to the ground floor. Sure enough, the angry little shithead has his arm around Moriarty's neck. With the squirming child in my arms, I aim for the scrawny detective's forehead.

The doctor--Watkins? Watson? Waters?--releases the Professor. Evelyn is grunting and pointing in my arms, desperate for Moriarty's attention. I switch frequencies on the earpiece. "Listen _Jim_ ," I try my damnedest not to laugh, but it slips out anyway, "your little brat is losing her shit."

"D’you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?"  His voice echoes in my earpiece with a half-second delay.

Evelyn's face screws up. It's starting. Please no. I'd rather be beside an explosion than hear this child screech. "Fuck. Seriously, Prof, I don't know what to do."

He responds only to the weird cat-faced detective.  "Kill you? N-no, don’t be obvious. I mean, I’m gonna kill you anyway some day. I don’t wanna rush it, though. I’m saving it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no. If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you. I’ll burn the heart out of you."

"This baby's about to burn you. Seriously." It's the only thing I can think to say. Why the fuck is the bastard ignoring me?

"Well, I’d better be off."

THANK GOD!

The arsehole detective continues chatting with Moriarty. Evelyn's snot is dripping off my fingertips, and I am just a hair away from tossing her into the pool below me. "All right, that's it, we're going to daddy." I dash for the stairwell to the first floor, Evelyn beginning to bawl.

"No you won't," the criminal chimes back in my ear. I'm trying NOT to suffocate the little bitch, but sounds keep coming out of her face, and all I can do is clap my hands over her head. However, when we meet "Dada" on the threshold of the stairs, the sounds stop. The tears don't, but at least she's quieter now.

"Hi, sweetheart," he says, pulling her from me, covering her in kisses. "Did the mean old man give you a fuss?"

"Dadadadada," she babbles, knocking her forehead against his.

"This is fucking bizarre," I say. "Aren't you gonna kill Holmes?"

Moriarty gives me a dirty look. "Have you been listening to anything I said?"

"Uh, no, actually," I snap back, "I've been trying to keep Aoife—"

"Evelyn."

"—Evelyn from screaming."

"Oh," he cooes, sympathy washing over his face as he addresses his daughter, "did you miss Daddy?"

Still pouting, Evelyn nods, her tiny arms clutching him tight. The boss imitates her face, some weird sign of empathy. "Poor baby girl. It's so difficult being a baby, isn't it, my dear?"

"You're only encouraging bad behavior," I say. I can't hide my disgust. This is the man that pays me to kill people?  “You’re going to spoil her. She’ll develop some sort of attachment disorder or something.”

"Thank you, Dr. Spock, but I don't recall asking your opinion." He kisses Evelyn's cheek. "I've got to go back to work for just a second, sweetie, but I'll be right back."

Evelyn mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "twenty."

Moriarty fucking beams like a kid getting a puppy at Christmas. I feel like I've stepped into a Dali painting, mocking all the laws of human interaction that I've come to rely on. "That's right, smart girl, twenty! I'll be back in twenty seconds. Show Basher how you count to twenty!"

He hands her to me, his eyes dead serious. "This is the best fucking thing you've ever seen in your whole shitty life, do you understand me?"

"You expect me to get excited about your kid counting?"

"Yes because she's way ahead on the development table!" he hisses, turning his back and walking down to the pool.

I shake my head, baffled. "I do not care!" Evelyn shoves two fingers in my face, whining. "What do you want?" She shoves another finger in my face. "Stop it." She squeals. She shoves four fingers directly into my eye. "Christ! What—oh."

I growl in my throat. She wants me to count. She can't count. So I have to count. Kind of like how Moriarty can't shoot worth a damn so I have to shoot. Before the fifth finger gets lodged up my nose, I grab her wrist and pull it away from my face. Through my earpiece, I can hear Moriarty and Holmes flirting with each other. "Five." She beams, her grin frighteningly reminiscent of her adoptive father's. She holds up another finger from her left hand. "Six. Seven. Eight." She then holds up ten fingers. Again, I'm baffled. She points to her toes. "Um, no, stop. Why the hell'd you leave out nine?" This is crazy. Why, after eight fingers, would you skip right to ten? _What is wrong with her?_

I’m positively fuming.  It's a stereotyped movement. Go up one number, one finger goes up. It's one finger. Then two. Then three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. NINE. Ten. It's a pattern. It makes sense. _WHY THE FUCK WOULD SHE SKIP NINE?_ It makes NO SENSE to skip nine, not even in Baby World.

"Nine. Do nine fingers." I hold up her hands, spreading out her ten fingers. I try to be gentle as I fold down her pinky. "Nine." I release it, and it pops back up. "Ten. You see how that works? Eight." I fold down two fingers. Then I let one pop back up in the air. "Nine." Then the last one. "Ten. Makes sense, right?"

She flashes her ten fingers back at me, smacking me in the face.  "Twinny!"

Facepalm. I really fucking hate this kid. "I thought we were counting your toes, you infuriating little weed."

When I look back at her, she slams her palms into my face again. "Twinny!"

Not to sound like a pansy, but she hits the eye that the hostage socked earlier. And it hurts. It's all I can do not to dropkick the baby down the steps.

"Twinny!" she shrills again.

"Jesus Christ, shut it!"


	7. Preparations

****_February 2011 | Jim’s POV_

_KILLSHERLOCK._

_Shh. Shhh. Not now. Not while Evelyn’s still awake._

_killsherlock._

At any given time, I have hundreds of electro-chemicals masquerading around as thoughts buzzing through my head. _Why do_ imploding _dying stars_ explode _?_ Is _dark matter a fundamental particle? If I’m “worried” about Evelyn, does it qualify as simply the primary emotion of fear or is it a tertiary emotion categorized under fear? What’s the biological basis of my attachment to her? What’s causing the glitch in my bank heist app? Instinctively, I want to blame Robertson, but he’s dead, so clearly, the fault lays in the socket programming._

There’s always an undercurrent of problem-solving and questioning happening in my internal monologue, which I visualize as binary code.

Lately though, that internal monologue has been plagued with two words.

_KILLSHERLOCK._

I’m not sure why but this sort of thing happens sometimes. Misfirings in the brain, unresolved thought patterns, causing the same thought to play over and over again. It’s why I obsessively wash my hands, why I wake up at three in the morning determined to obtain a cinnamon roll at all costs, why I absolutely must drink godawful, cheap Sutter Homes wine while watching the Home Shopping Network on Sunday mornings. Why I count Evelyn’s fingers. Why I count the stairs in the stairway up to my flat.

Those things have to happen, otherwise those thoughts plague me.

It’s manageable, usually. Just do what the brain wants and move on.

Killing Sherlock Holmes is different though. It has to be special.

I often wonder how similar my obsession with Evelyn is to my obsession with Sherlock? If I “love” Evelyn, do I “love” Sherlock?

Love isn’t real.

Well, no, that’s not true. C8H11NO2+C10H12N2O+C43H66N12O12S2 = love. There’s an observable structure to “love” but it’s all chemical.  And if it can be reduced down to a chemical, if it’s concrete, can it really be labelled anything else than the result of neurochemicals and biology?

_KILLSHERLOCK._

The thought has been louder these past few months, so I know something has to change.

Which is why I’ve shown my hand to Mycroft Holmes. Subtly, of course. He thinks he’s clever, having decoded my shorthand in my diary. What he doesn’t know is that I only keep a diary for him to decode.  

So, at any given time, I’ll disappear. I’ll be “caught.”

I could potentially be killed, but I doubt it. My existence is a double-edged sword. I keep the underground too orderly. Ordered criminal happenings is a comfort to the British government, to the governments of the world, but chaos is uncontrollable. In short, they need me, because I keep the baddies in check, and while I keep them in check, they have a better chance of rounding them up.

It’s good to be king.

Mycroft will get what he needs from me, then release me, and I’ll get what I need from him to kill his brother in the most delicious way possible.

Everybody wins. Except Sherlock.

There’s a rub, though. Evelyn.

I’ll be away from Evelyn. And that makes me. . . I don’t have the words, really. Thinking about it feels like my skin is being shaved off my bones, like someone’s jabbing icepicks into my wrists. Like someone’s ripped open my ribcage and poured ice directly onto my lungs.

It’s so strange how neurotransmitters like dopamine and oxytocin can cause actual, tangible, physical sensations.  From an evolutionary standpoint, how the hell is that beneficial?

This has to happen though. It’s a sacrifice I have to make. I have to be away from Evelyn for a little while.  The _KILLSHERLOCK_ thought is like a smoldering coal that gradually gets hotter. If I don’t handle it now, it will consume my thoughts, and there won’t be room for anything else.  And children, I’m learning, take up quite a bit of mental space.

This is the best course of action, long-term. I hate long-term thinking. I prefer living in the moment. Impulse. But it’s part of being a criminal mastermind. You have to plan ahead.

Basher will watch my darling. He doesn’t know it yet, and if I give him the head’s up, he’ll make up his mind to disobey my orders. But the soldier in him obeys orders given in the heat of the moment. Controlling Basher boils down to never giving him time to think. Toss him in a crisis, he’s golden. Give him time to process, he’s a bloody nightmare.

And, if I’m fair to myself, to him, and to Evelyn, he’s the only person in the world (besides my daughter) that I trust. He’s never let me down. And on some very primitive level, he’s got a basic instinct to protect. He thinks that makes him weak, and it does, so he overcompensates for that instinct by killing. Nonetheless that protective instinct is ever present.

So, to help my little angel adjust to the idea that Basher will be taking care of her, that she can trust him, I settle us both in her _Iron Man_ tent and put in _Aladdin_.

“See the tiger, Evey?”

“Tiga!” she squeals.

“What’s the tiger doing, precious?”

“Tiga!”

“Yes, he’s being a tiger, but he’s also protecting Jasmine, isn’t he? From that nasty prince Achmed, isn’t he?”

“Yeah!”

“Because that’s what tigers do!”

She claps, then points to me. “Tiga!”

The entirety of my body is flooded with those damned reward chemicals, making me feel melty and sentimental and blurry, like I’m damned to spend an eternity in a Prendergast watercolor.

“ _A leanbh_.” I pull her close to me, close enough that I can feel her breath, her heartbeat, the bounce of her curls against my cheek as she giggles. Having a child is like exposing a nerve, then never doing anything to conceal it. Her very existence makes me ache, and if I think about it too much, my eyes burn.

A tear slides down my cheek.

_Gross._

“No, silly girl, I’m your daddy, not your tiger. But your tiger is coming, yeah?”

“Bomb,” she says very seriously.

“No, no, don’t say that. That’s why we can’t go back to the museum. Say ‘tiger’!”

“TIGA!”

I can’t stop beaming.  “That’s right! That’s exactly right! You’re so clever.”

“Tiga, not bomb.”

“Right! And your tiger will come, and he’ll protect you. So you won’t be scared at all, right?”

She tilts her head. She taps my fingers, imitating what I do to her while I read to her. My guts are mushy.

“You’re brave, aren’t you?”

She nods earnestly. “Like Jazz.”

“Yes, you’re brave like Jasmine, and a tiger will come and keep you safe.”

“From the zoo!”

“No, he won’t come from the zoo.” I grab a notepad from the coffee table and scribble Basher’s face on the body of a tiger. The scars over his eyes and the bridge of his nose are perfect for a human-tiger hybrid. “He’ll look like that.”

She takes the paper and studies it. She’s mimicking me. “Modeling” her therapist calls it. She’s seen me study papers before, so she mimics my face. She takes the pen from my hand and begins marking fiercely. “No no no, idiot.”

I burst into laughter. This is, unfortunately, how I grade papers. My students are idiots. Mercifully, I just have one class this semester.

“Are you grading my drawing?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t like my tiger?”

She thinks about it, then returns to tapping my fingers. “Did you know that I love you?” I ask. Whether or not I do “love” her, I’m unsure, but it’s important that she feel secure. I’ll lie to her every chance I get if it means she’ll feel safe and won’t worry.

She nods.

“I love you bunches and bunches.”

She kisses my cheek, leaving a trail of saliva. Toddlers are so disgusting, but I don’t brush it off because she gets upset when I do. “Luff you too.”

She’s getting sleepy. Her thumb is in her mouth. I watch her eyelids droop. I should put her to bed. I shouldn’t have put the DVD in. I should have stuck to our schedule. She gets upset when our schedule changes.

But this is important. The coming weeks are going to be difficult. She needs to be prepared.

_KILLSHERLOCK._

_Hush, hush, I will. I’m going to. Just a few more things to line up_.

Her slobbery kiss has dried on my cheek.

She’s unimportant to my work. She’s unimportant in this arbitrary universe. So, why does it seem that she alone has the answers to the flyby anomaly, that she’s the only possible solution to Lehmer’s conjecture, that she’s more than neurons firing and cellular production?

_KILLSHERLOCK._

 


	8. Roots

_March 2011 | Basher’s POV_

Anisa climbs onto my lap once I'm situated on the sofa. The heat and weight of her resting on my thighs is the epitome of perfection. Her perfect thighs straddle me so that we're chest-to-chest and those pert, full (100% natural, I'm certain of it) breasts press against me, and instinctively my palms come to rest on her hips. The scent of peaches and something floral surround me. I can't keep my eyes off those full lips painted dark red.

"Hey," she purrs, running her red-tipped fingers over my chest. We've done this a million times before, but she can still make my throat dry as a desert. This woman can rattle me like no one else. I breathe deeply, pressing the weight of her down against my half-hard cock. "Oh, get started before I got here?"

I laugh, virtually hypnotized by those red lips. "No. Unlike your other clients, I don't need a half hour to get it up."

"Shut up," she says before she kisses me. God, it's all just hot feminine energy, simultaneously intoxicating and invigorating, and even after three years of this, I can't get enough of Anisa. Sometimes, when I'm completely pissed, I think about asking her to marry me. She'd never go for that, though. She's a business woman first and foremost.

Some sex workers get into the trade because they're forced to, because they have an addiction a desk job can't support or accommodate, or because there's some tragic backstory filled with loss and abandonment. But then there's workers like Anisa. Anisa is in this profession because she _enjoys_ it, and she's fantastic at it.

She has a rocking body, a spitfire personality and she gives head that makes grown men weep. She smokes like a train and drinks like a sailor and she can bluff like a total psychopath. Most people can't hold their own against me in cards. Anisa runs circles around me every goddamn time.

She is, to speak plainly, my fantasy come to life.

Her lithe fingers comb through my hair, and I can't stop the moan that escapes my throat. Her other hand snakes between us, working to undo my flies. "There he is," she purrs again. She's only somewhat condescending. Fucking bitch. I love her. "There's my big bad tiger."

I nip at her neck, perhaps a little rougher than the first time I paid for her services. "You ignored my call on Friday."

She's unfazed. "I was working."

I squeeze that tight bum, growling. "Naughty, naughty. Guess you'll have to make it up to me."

My phone pings twice in rapid succession.

Anisa retreats an inch or so. "You gonna answer that?"

"Nah. Unlike some people, I have priorities."

She leans back in. It's bizarre, because I know she's only toying with me, that I'm making a fool of myself, but holy shit, it is so worth it, and I don't even care. "I have priorities. Myself and whoever's paying for my time." She kisses me slow and deep. My head is spinning.

Another ping.

"I really think you should check that."

"Love, nothing, not even the Professor is gonna interrupt this," I say, referring to our mutual boss. I reach for the mobile on the coffee table and silence it. "Now then. . ."

I lay back, letting her pin me against the sofa. Some predator instinct clicks on in her brain, and her hand is on my throat. Her teeth on my lips. Her breasts pressing against my chest, pressing me deeper into the couch.

_God, yes, thank you._

We're half-undressed when her phone rings. I'm disturbed that it's the BeeGees' "Staying Alive." The Professor's ringtone. In the blink of an eye, she's off my lap, rummaging through her purse. I groan and grab her wrist.

I beg, "Ani, please, just ignore it."

"I can't. It's M."

"He's more important than me?" I give her my most pitiful puppy dog eyes.

She raises an eyebrow. "You make sure a million pounds finds its way into my bank account every quarter, and we'll chat."

My body chills in her absence. There's something painfully hollow about the end of an intimate embrace. It's like when you're all warm and cozy under a blanket, and then you become aware of one untucked corner, cooling whatever part of you is exposed.

I take some deep breaths, palming my erection. I hear her speaking in hushed tones. "Hurry it up, or I'm finishing without you."

"No skin off my nose," she answers from the kitchen. "You're not that desperate, anyway."

I sit up, listening intently. I can't quite make out what she's saying, so I hang out in the kitchen threshold, noting her anxious expression.

"No, I know, I won't tell a soul. . . . Yeah, he's here. . . . I'll tell him. All right. Take care, Gruner."

I grin at her. "What are you gonna tell me?"

The dark skin of her face seems bloodless. "M's been collared. Check your phone."

I scoff. "If he's been collared it's because he chose to be collared."

"Bash, I'm a little concerned."

"I can see that." I hold out my arms to her. "C'mere. Forget about it. Just come—"

"Check your phone, Tiger. The Professor left a very important message for you."

I roll my eyes. Does Moriarty have any idea how expensive a night with one of his girls is? "That dramatic bastard has no respect for boundaries." I flash her a lascivious grin. "It's my day off. Please, Ani?  I’ll beg like a good boy."

She storms past me into the den, grabbing my mobile off the coffee table and hurling it at me. It smacks into my chest, and it's with more luck than skill that I catch it before it hits the ground. Her arms over her chest, she watches me, her frown wrinkling her forehead while she silently urges me to check the damn device.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" I unlock it and check the three texts from The Professor.

_22:34 Ecstacy shipment._

_22:34 Under 44._

_22:35 Dubai._

Unfortunately, I know exactly what "Jim" is trying to tell me. That fucker is getting in my head.

Ecstasy equals E equals Evelyn.

44 equals his apartment on 4th Street on the fourth floor.

Dubai . . . Moriarty has a rule about locations ending texts in situations where communication wasn't secure. It's actually incredibly effective. Canada and Mexico almost went to war with Greenland because of the Professor's red herrings.

God. Damn. It.

I paid up front for the night with Anisa.

She is so fucking expensive. And she does not give refunds under any circumstances.

"Fuuuuck," I groan, flopping backwards onto an armchair.

Anisa is getting more concerned. "What is it?"

I stare at her, contemplating telling her the whole story about Jim's adopted weed. Women are biologically programmed to care for kids, right? Sharing that tidbit of information with Anisa could be beneficial because, oh my God, I am not going to care for this fucking child.

_I'm not._

Because Moriarty's little orphan girl is not my responsibility. I didn't sign up for this shit.

I play cards. I kill people. That's how I pay the bills. That's how I pay for Anisa.

It's an incredibly freeing realization. I'm under no obligation to get the little brat. And surely the Professor has told other employees. Surely, he knows me well enough (because the bastard spies—he doesn't even bother to hide it anymore) that he can't possibly expect me to go. Even if he asked, he had to know that I'd refuse.

I pretend to text back, just to soothe Anisa's anxiety and get her on my cock. I toss my phone to the side and stalk over to her. "Taken care of," I grin, voice low. She doesn't believe me.

Ugh, this is why I should've stayed to my "one girl, one time" rule. She knows me too well now, and we share an employer. She has a vested interest in making sure that Moriarty's operations run smoothly in his absence.

"Listen, ok, I'm gonna take of it tomorrow. It's just a drug shipment he wants moved."

"Go move it. Now. We've got all night."

"Babe, no one wants this shipment. Trust me." I pull her oh-so-close-let's-pretend-like-we're-a-legit-couple. "Please? For me? I've been in Somalia all week. Don't I deserve something nice?" I give her puppy dog eyes again.

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "Eh, what the hell, right?"

"Yes!" I shout as I lift her off the ground, urging her to wrap those sinful legs around my waist. "You won't regret it." I kiss her again. Before I met Anisa, I thought it was stupid that wars had been fought over women, but, damn, if Helen of Troy could kiss half as well as Anisa, I couldn't blame What's His Name.

"You're lucky you're fit," she growls, biting my bottom lip. "I don't let my customers manhandle me."

I just laugh. I'm hard as hell and positively giddy with the promise of some serious fucking with a really hot woman. Once we're in my bedroom, I press her into the mattress, kissing deep and hard, urging her surrender.

Her top comes off, followed closely by mine. God, the feel of her bare breasts against me, those hardening nipples brushing against my chest hair . . . .  I can't wait to lick them, to kiss them, to suck them. My arms slip beneath her waist, bringing her closer to me, her hips flush against mine. "Oh Anisa," I breathe because she just pulls it out of me. The smoothness of her skin, the fullness of her lips, the heat of her kisses all compel me to speak her name, to worship her, to inhale everything that she's willing to offer, _to_ _take, to win_.

Her long, elegant fingers stroke both sides of my face.

_"Twinny."_

The vision of that spaz's pudgy palms thrusting upwards to slap me in the face springs into my mind's eye.

Annoyance courses through me. Jesus Christ, how did she miss nine? How the hell has the human race survived when babies are so fucking dumb and disgusting?

God, she's probably not even a baby anymore. It's been...almost a year since she skipped nine at the pool.

No, since my idiot employer failed to get rid of that weird detective and his lovesick doctor-blogger.  That’s a significant distinction. I was not there for the weed, I was there for the murder.

God, the whole event just fucking infuriates me!

"You all right, Tiger?"

"Yeah, completely."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

Anisa shakes her head with a knowing smile. Normally her smart-arsery is adorable; right now, it's just annoying. "No. You're focused on something else."

"Yeah, about that, shouldn't you be distracting me?"

"Don't make this about me, Tiger." She taps my nose. "I think you're feeling guilty about M."

I take a breath and review my options. One, leave the weed to fend for herself. Two, leave Anisa with my goddamn money. Three, take Anisa to Evelyn.

I curse again.

~~

I find Evelyn under The Professor's bed, and it looks like she's been crying. God, she's gotten so big, and yet she's still so small.

I offer her my hand. "Hey, kid. You remember me?"

She retreats further under the bed, shaking her head. She's remarkably silent. I sigh, making my aggravation clear. "Come on, rugrat."

She shakes her head again.

I make a grab for her ankle, and she lets out a blood-curdling scream, kicking and wriggling like she’s possessed.

"Christ, Sebastian, stop!" Anisa hisses, tugging me back by my shoulder. "God, this is why I despise kids."

Oh, be still my beating heart. I look up at her, grinning. "I think I'm in love with you."  I dodge her foot swinging at my skull. "We'll get her. Don't worry. Go see if you can find some kinda sleep medication."

"I don't drug children."

"Well you don't have to."

She seems satisfied with that answer, and she disappears into the master bedroom.

"Evelyn, come on now, you don't remember me?" I ask. "I work for your daddy."

The word "daddy" seems to set her off, and blessedly quiet tears pour out of her eyes. I once read an article about the scent of female tears actually reducing testosterone production, and I wonder if that is happening right now, because something akin to pity settles in my chest, and when I say that, I mean I can actually, tangibly feel it. Pity feels a lot like mucus.

"Hey, kiddo, what's wrong? You wanna tell Uncle Basher?"

She shakes her head again.

"You want some candy?" God knows why I asked. I don't have candy.

This gets her attention. She avoids eye contact, but she visibly relaxes, curiosity battling her fear. She licks her lips, but stays quiet.

Anisa returns, holding a couple of bottles of some prescription meds and some over-the-counter meds. "So, is Moriarty gay?" I can only imagine what she found in his medicine cabinet to make her ask that.

I rise my eyebrows at her. "Obviously?"

"Really?"

"How many straight men do you know who own that many tailored suits?"

She gives me a cheeky grin. "You don't know my clientele. It's just, I don't know, weird, a good Catholic boy like you, working for a homosexual."

I laugh. "You don't know what I do for a living."

She gives me a knowing look. "Are you one of his rentboys?"

I glare at her. "No."

"I don't believe you."

"Bitch."

"Slut."

I take one of the opaque blue bottles from her to examine it. "Only for you, Ani."

Anisa gets to her knees, looking under the bed. "Hi little girl, I've gotta lovely surprise for you."

"Yeah, no, we're not giving her Vicodin."

"I'm sure it'll be fine if we half it."

"No. Not unless it's baby Vicodin."

"How old is she?"

"I don't know. Like three or four or something?"

"You sure?"

"Not at all. Hey, Evelyn, how old are you?"

She holds up two fingers. The memory of her skipping the ninth finger plays in my head again, and it’s all I can do to keep my rage inside. Why that specific moment gets to me, I’ll never know.

Anisa looks at me, repulsed. "That's a bit young, isn't it?"

"Huh?"

"Like, is she working for him?"

The suggestion that the Professor might be pimping out a toddler makes my stomach turn.  Uncomfortable heat slithers up my neck. "No, no, he literally adopted her. Maybe not legally, but he's not, like, whoring her out or anything." I pause. "Would you really work for someone involved in something like that?"

"I'll work for whoever pays the bills."

I frown again. I'm not entirely comfortable with that answer, probably because of its echoes of Sir Augustus Moran. This is why I shouldn’t have involved myself with a prostitute. If someone's willing to work for someone with those sorts of interests, it's usually indicative that something's not completely all right.  I don't want to worry that Anisa's sanity's not one-hundred percent intact.  

"I'm just not even gonna think about that."

"Didn't realize my tiger was such a softie."

"Tiga!"

Evelyn is crawling closer now. "Tiga!" She's pointing at me.

"What?"

She pulls something from behind her, a couple of sheets of paper. Palming through them in that ridiculously uncoordinated way that toddlers do, she finds the one she wants and hands it to me.

It's definitely Moriarty's handwriting. And doodling. Moriarty doodles sometimes during business meetings. This is not one of his typical violence-strewn doodles; it's a quick sketch of Evelyn and a tiger with my features.

"Tiga," she says again, looking up at me expectantly.

"Oh fuck," I groan. That scrawny bastard knew I would come to get her. How could he possibly know that?  I didn’t even know it.

She crawls out from under the bed and grabs my arm. "Get dada."  The sincerity in those black eyes startles me.

"Get him? I don't know where he is."

"Get," she persists.

Holy shit, talking to toddlers is hard. "No. I can't. I don't know where he is."

Her eyes fill up with fear. "Lost?"

"Uh, no. No. Shit." I look to Anisa. "What should I do. . . ?"

Anisa looks positively floored that I would ask her that, as if she actually gives a shit. "I dunno, Bash.  Take her to a police station?"

"I’m not going to drop off Moriarty’s kid at a police station.  He would castrate me."

Anisa rolls her eyes. "Whatever. I'm bored of this. I'm going to go explore. Tell me when it's time to drug the rugrat."

~~

The Professor has left me a ton of instructions. The weed is apparently in the process of toilet-training, meaning she's not ready for "big girl pants" (as The Professor puts it), but they do have "potty trips." Also, she's allergic to red food coloring, which I doubt is true because how the fuck is someone allergic to colors? She can only have sugary cereals on Sundays, but that's not even something I'm going to enforce, and I'm supposed to read a science-y book to her every night, which is also not going to fucking happen.

It infuriates me that he just assumed I'd show up. And it infuriates me that he was right. After Anisa leaves in the morning, and after I've gotten plenty of sleep AND changed the sheets on his bed, I thumb through his notes.

Apparently I was supposed to take Evelyn to a playgroup this morning, but that didn't happen, which is probably for the best. She'd had a healthy dose of baby triaminic the night before and a strange man taking a hung-over two-year-old to play group probably would've ended in my arrest.

It's eleven when she wakes up, shouting, "Dada! Fadda! Dada! Bombombomb!"

When she sees me in her doorway, she screams bloody murder.

"No! Stop it! It's me, remember?"

"Tiga?"

"Probably." I am wildly uncomfortable with her calling me that. "Let's try something else, though, eh? Like, um. . ." I look around her room. There's a ridiculous number of stuffed toys in her crib. And on her shelves. And in the floor.

I can't name most of them.  The image of Moriarty, Professor of the Underground, going to shops to buy all these soft toys haunts me.

"Tigger? How about I be Tigger?"

She isn't paying attention. Or maybe she is. I don't know, because I'm not sure what "mouthing on the railing of my crib" means in tot body language.

"Yeah, you probably shouldn't chew on that."

She giggles through her mouthful of railing.

Whatever.  I turn to leave when she announces: 

"Nappy gross!" Her lips don't quite connect on the "puh" sound, so it almost sounds like "na..y." Have I mentioned how bizarre and irritating I find small humans?

Oh fuck. _Oh fuck._

No.

I know that I have to do this, but holy shit, I do not want to. The memory of her godawful stench the night Moriarty found her on the docks comes back to me, and it's all I can do not to vomit. It's weird, isn't it? I've seen people shit themselves from fear or dying or being severely wounded or sick, and it’s never really bothered me; still doesn't. But the idea of changing a nappy absolutely repels me.

"G’oss," she says, nodding her head.

"You're gross," I grumble.

I know that adults do this all the time, that kids need to be kept clean, but working with the people that I work with, and having no idea what happened to her before we—before Moriarty found her on the dock, I'm uncomfortable with the idea of changing her, and it's more than just the disgust at human waste.

I do it, though, and the process doesn't phase her at all. The little weed pees on the bed, then laughs maniacally. Rotten little bitch.

After I change Moriarty's sheets AGAIN (and I fully intend to sleep in that bed again tonight because it's the comfiest mattress I've ever slept on, and I'm secure enough in my masculinity to sleep in another's man's bed in his absence...probably), she's screaming about "Time for eggies, time for eggies!"

So, I scramble some eggs. When I set them down in front of her, she gives me the most disdainful looks I've ever received, save for those my employer gives me.  Jesus, she looks just like Moriarty. "These not eggies," she emphatically tells me.

I want to slap her. "These is eggies," I snap back.

"Nope," she says, shaking her head like I'm a lost cause. How is this kid so condescending with only, like, ten teeth?

That seems like a lot of teeth, actually. While I'm googling how many teeth a two-year-old should have, she flings her scrambled eggs at my face.

By 15:00, the little shit is going stir-crazy. She's pacing the house with her weird off-balance toddler gait. I'm certain she's learned this behavior from Moriarty. It's crazy how much she does actually look like him, despite the dark skin and traditionally African features. I think it's the black eyes and overly expressive brows.

She rambles to herself, occasionally picking up pillows and stuffed toys to put in her mouth or to chat with. Sometimes she tries to engage me, but she usually goes away if I pretend to be asleep.

Then, she grabs my hand with this vice-like grip. "Loo, loo, loo," she says urgently.

"You have to go?"

She nods.

"So, go."

"Loooooo," she says again.

"Nothing is stopping you, child."

And then she just collapses, her head buried in the sofa, muffling her screams. The change in her demeanor is terrifying. One minute, it's time to pee, the next, it's time for _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_. Just like her goddamn dad, the weed has no emotional continuity. I spin her around so that she's facing me. "What? What is your problem?"

"Loo!"

I cave and walk to the wc with her, only for her to shut the door in my face. She offers some babble-soaked explanation that I don't follow, and then we sit in silence, separated by a closed door. Why the fuck am I here? Seriously, what is my contribution? Surely it's more than beating my head against the door as quietly as possible, cursing Moriarty and my own willingness to be here.

I think I must doze off, because suddenly I'm jolting up in response to the wet cascades pelting my face. Evelyn is laughing. "Oh my God, that had better be water."

"Washee 'ands."

"How about dryee 'ands?"

She laughs, looking very smug. She makes a grabby motion for my hand. "Yook."

I stare at her, pulling my hands to my chest.

The grabby motion intensifies. "Yoook!" she demands.

"No!" Only, she looks like she's about to start screaming again, so I let myself be led into the room, praying she's only showing me that she knows how to use the flush function.

"Yook," she says, breathless.

Sure enough, the world's tiniest shit sits at the bottom of her tiny practice potty. And I looked at it.

I saw a shit I didn't have to.

"Ok, I looked, off we go," I say, looking away and fumbling to dump it into the toilet to flush it.

When the water starts running, she screams, "No no no no no!"

This leads to about ten minutes of her screaming and crying and refusing to look at me and hiding in the cupboards just out of my reach.

~~

She battles sleep every night for the first week. In fact, by the fourth night, she helps me set up an Iron Man tent in front of the door of the flat. She cries when Moriarty doesn't walk through the door.

We struggle through the second week. I figure it's best to stop feeding her whatever the hell she wants and start following the Professor's Nutrition Plan. The fact that he had that plus a million other directions written up because he knew he would be gone a long time and because he knew I wouldn't abandon his goddamn little weed infuriates me.

By the third week, things get a little easier, more routine. We limp along. She still cries. She scribbles all over paper and has me "post" these letters that say nothing. I take her to Play Group, where the mothers fawn over me, pleased to meet "Adam's partner."  I intimidate those that misbehave in Moriarty's hierarchy.  I sign a few cheques.  I get coffee.  I pick up the weed.

I see a kid I recognize from last year, the one that Moriarty kidnapped and would've killed if Holmes had provided the wrong answer about a painting. I wonder if my boss met the old lady I shot here as well.

A month into Moriarty's disappearance, she gets it in her head that I'm her "papa," telling me that she really misses "before dada." I've got a better handle on her gibberish now, so one night at dinner I ask her, "Where do you think your dad went?" (I'd read the day before that you should still speak to little ones in full sentences even if they can't answer in full sentences.) The truth is I cannot handle another Play Group Mummy trying to guilt me into providing a "healthy, nutritious" snack for all the kids. I want my boss back so that I can have my old life back, and anything she can tell me might enable me to track him down.

She raises her hands above her head and says, "jus' poof!"

"What's that mean exactly?"

"Dis ears."

"You think he just disappeared?"

She nods, shoving a single pea into her mouth. "Poof."

"Did he say anything to you before he disappeared?"

She babbles about the shark book we read last night, which isn’t as unhelpful as I’d like for it to be.

~~

_April 2011 | Basher's POV_

Evelyn, saddled in her high-chair beside me, takes a long gulp of her apple juice, just as I take a long pull from my whiskey.  By now, I’ve learned that toddlers cannot be trusted with mugs and straws, that they absolutely must use sippy cups if I have any hope to salvage Moriarty’s carpet.  I can only imagine the tirade he'll launch into when he sees the various stains on his plush white rugs.  

The sight of her makes me uncomfortable.  I can’t pinpoint why for a long time.  I take a long drag and exhale smoke, nicotine satisfying something in my moderately sedated brain.  Still, vague images of tissue and viscera slowly turning black emerge behind my eyes.  

I polish off the Jameson in my mug, puzzling as to why I'm uneasy.  Another puff.  Evelyn brings the straw to her lips.  I flick the ash off the butt of my cigarette.  I feel a touch squeamish.  

Why does Evelyn  _have_ a straw when she has a sippy cup?  

The answer is because I gave her one.  

Why? Because she asked for one.

_But why did she ask for one?_

She inhales loudly on the straw, sucking in nothing, then exhales.  It clicks in my head suddenly why she wanted a straw. I look at my cigarette, perched between my two fingers.  Evelyn’s done precisely the same with her straw.

Oh.  Dear.  

The smoky image of decaying tissue sharpens to a tiny pair of lungs, shriveling up and hardening like a grape in the sun.  My GP's mantra of "those'll kill you, Colonel" echoes in the back of my skull.  I take another drag.

I don’t want to ask because I know the answer, and I know what the answer will mean for me, but out it comes, questionmark and all.  “Evelyn, what are you doing?”

“Smoking.”

_Goddammit._

I drum my fingers on the tabletop.   _Fuck._ I shouldn’t smoke in the same flat as a two-year-old, I realize.  Hadn’t even occurred to me until just now. And I’m sure the Professor will bitch that everything reeks of Davidoff Classic smoke when he returns.   _That's what you get for leaving me with your fucking weed, Professor._

I'm kidding myself if I think I'd ever actually say that to his face.

I eye the butt hanging between my fingers.  Evelyn does the same. I exhale loudly, and so does she.  I take another drag. So does she. We exhale in unison.  She looks to me for approval. Why the  _fuck_  do children imitate every GODDAMN thing they see?  Or, more importantly, why do I give a shit about her lungs?  I don't. I just don't want Moriarty  _skinning me_ because his daughter has developed an addiction to imaginary nicotine.

_Jesus, tiny little lungs shrinking . . . the way she coughed on the docks . . ._

“Evelyn, we quit tomorrow, deal?” I hold out my hand.  

Her tiny little fist balls around two of my fingers.  The fragility of children is nerve-wracking.  I much prefer murdering them.  She nods her head.  “Deal.”

When we break, we both take another drag.  


	9. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has so many feelings all the time.

_ May 2011 | Basher’s POV _

The Ice Man, apparently, just lets Moriarty walk free one day in early May. All I get is a text with an address, and I choose not to bring Evelyn, lest the whole thing be a trap.  I shouldn’t explicitly care about her being abducted by the government, but I do. I can only assume that happens after a month and a half of constant exposure to a toddler.

I drop Evelyn off at one of her playgroup friends' flat, my rifle bag already packed and cleverly disguised as a tennis racket. It's most likely a trap, but if it's not, I've got a lot of bitching to unload on “Jim” Goddamn Moriarty for leaving me with his shit-voyeur moppet.

Moriarty barely acknowledges me when I pick him up from some reserve in High Weald. He looks like hell. One eye is swollen shut, the other one not far behind. His arms and fingers are stiff, covered in burns. He's likely been electrocuted. His eyes, while always soulless, now look lifeless, and his skin is stretched over his skull, the fullness of his cheeks gone.

He reeks, too, of infection and burnt skin and urine.  Like father, like daughter, I suppose.

It's a half hour into the drive back to the city that I finally manage to break the silence.  "Hospital?"

He half-smirks. "Home."

"Let's at least get you some new clothes, yeah? You smell like a barn."

He rolls his head slowly to look at me, something very serpentine about the motion. "I want to see Evelyn."

"I think a shower's in order first, boss.  You'll frighten her, looking like that."

He flexes his stiff fingers, which now look pale blue.  More silence. "I've decided how I'm going to kill Sherlock Holmes," he finally says, his voice hollow.

I nod slowly, because how the fuck does someone answer that? This isn't how I saw Moriarty's return playing out. I fully intended on giving him hell for leaving me with his weed child, but seeing him so empty . . .  

After a lull, I ask, "Need help?"

"Nope."  He pops his lips on the “p.”

Another long pause. I had never realized the humanity of Moriarty, but apparently, there is at least a small percentage within him. He'd been affected by torture. He'd survived, obviously, and clearly he hadn't ratted me out because the Ice Man hadn't beaten down the door to get to me or any of the Professor’s other employees.  But he hadn't remained unaffected.   He wasn't "above it all." 

Seeing him like this is quite unnerving. He is the Professor; no one ever gets to him. Or, at least, they hadn't until now.

It’s with a forced smile I tell him, "Your fucking kid showed me her shit.”

There's a small, nearly imperceptible change in his posture. "Not in the closet, right?"

I blink. "Er, no, what? It was in her little practice thing! Should I have been checking the closet?  Of all the useless shit you wrote in that giant notebook, you leave  _ that _ out?"

His eyes marginally brighten, and he smiles as much as his swollen face allows. It actually tears one of the cuts on his lip, and he begins to freebleed all over my upholstery. "Hate I missed it."

And that's when I decide that yes, Moriarty was inhuman enough that I could light into him for leaving me with Evelyn for a couple of months.

~~

We agree it’s in Evelyn’s best interest if the first time seeing her father in months he didn’t look and smell like shit. I drop him off at his flat in Islington so he can shower and shave and look somewhat presentable (though there’s only so much one can do about that gaunt, tortured look), and I’m about to leave to retrieve Evelyn when profanity spews from the shower.

You see, the Professor keeps dropping things because his fingers are still stiff and numb (and probably broken), and after the third loud thunk in a two-minute period, I know I can’t just ignore it. We’ve reached the point that not acknowledging the Professor’s failing hands and weakened state would be more awkward than actually acknowledging it.

“Erm, Boss?” I say, ducking my head into the steam-filled room where the Professor is showering. “Do you, erm, do you need some help?”

“Ooh,” he says flirtatiously, like he’s not just been released from a government torture chamber, “trying to get in the shower with me? And in my oh-so-vulnerable state?”

He just  _ loves  _ playing the gay card.  He knows it makes me uneasy.  “Forget it. Keep dropping the soap on your toes. I’m going to get your daughter.”

~~

I don’t know what the protocol for this is. How do you reintroduce kid to her father? Especially when he looks thinner and paler and just all around corpsier than when she last saw him?  When he just disappeared?

Per her usual, Evelyn is chatty on our way back to the flat, holding my hand and telling me about her friend’s dog Muffin who sounds like an absolute psychopath. I make a note to never drop her off there again, because apparently Muffin bit his owner while she was there and wouldn’t let go. 

Except, I won’t have to drop her off anywhere ever again.

Her daddy is back.

She’s not mine. She’s not my responsibility. I’m not her papa, regardless of whatever’s happening in her little girl head.

I’m relieved.

_ Right? _

Right. I’m not sad at all. I have my life back. I can go back to drinking whenever the hell I want. Hell, I could probably take up smoking again, since I don’t have to worry about her imitating me or her tiny little lungs blackening from secondhand smoke.

I’m not sad.  At all.

“Little girl,” I interrupt her, because, oh my God, this psychopathic dog story is going on forever, and we’re almost to our building. Her building. I don’t live here. “Do you remember your Daddy?”

She grins up at me and points. “Papa Tiga.”

Oh fuck, this is gonna be hard. “No, your Daddy? Your before-Daddy?”

“Gone. Just poof.”

“Right, but you remember him?”

Her brow furrows, and I can’t decipher the emotions playing across her face.

“Do you remember him?”

She nods her head. But her focus is fixated on a crack in the sidewalk. “Well, he came back.”

She shakes her head. “Nope. Dis ears.”

“Okay, but he reappeared.”

She shrugs. It’s not an explicitly appropriate response, but what I’ve learned about toddlers in the time that the Professor has been gone is that their responses aren’t appropriate. They’re emotions and reactions and thoughts don’t make sense, don’t have any real logic to them. Toddlers are probably crying all the time because life is so confusing when your brain isn’t in tune with the world around you.

It takes a while to get the hang of being a human. 

I start to explain further, but you know what? She’s not mine. She’s not my daughter, my issue, my responsibility. The boss can go over all this with her.

“. . . I don’t care, Archibald,” the Professor is saying when I open the door. He’s marching uneasily around the flat. While he doesn’t reek anymore, he doesn’t look much better than when I picked him up. He’s limping, I realize. And it looks like he tried to shave despite his fingers being stiff and numb and blue. He looks so tired and ill. I’m not sure how safe it is to leave either of the Moriartys alone; they’re both extremely vulnerable.

Moriarty’s eyes light up, though, when he sees Evelyn. Some semblance of life touches his gaunt cheeks and bloodless lips. “Fix it,” he barks into the mobile before tossing it onto the sofa. With some difficulty, he gets to his knees. “Evey!” He opens his arms to her.

“No,” she growls, grabbing my hand, her tiny fingernails digging into my palm.  When I look down at her, I see that she’s paler, and her eyes are wide.

The Boss’s face falls.  I’ve never seen him look so thoroughly crushed.  It unnerves me that I think maybe his expression is sincere.  You can never tell with Moriarty, though. “Evey? Evelyn?”

She screams this blood-curdling scream full of rage and fear and God only knows what. “No!” she shouts, hurling her backpack at him with all her little tot might before storming back to her room. She slams the door as hard as her little toddler arms can manage.

The Boss looks even paler now. He closes his eyes slowly. When he opens them, I think I see tears welling up in them.

Seeing what might possibly be tears in the Professor’s eyes makes me feel ill.  And just off-balance. What I want to say is, “Boss, could you not do that while I’m here?” but what comes out is, “Er, I’ll--I’ll go get her.”

“No,” he snaps. He gets to his feet (with considerable difficulty) and waves me away.  The Professor takes on his signature cool, unaffected tone of voice. He rolls his shoulders, his neck cracking in the process. “No, I can handle this.” I follow him to her room, my stomach inexplicably in knots. Oh God, am I gonna be stuck with her? If Moriarty throws her out, am I willing to take her? If he goes in for the kill, will I let him?

Evey is under her crib. The only reason I know she’s crying is the erratic rise and fall of her shoulders. Somehow, the silent sobbing of a toddler is so much more gut-wrenching than screams and crying.  

Moriarty gets to his knees again, sitting before the crib like it’s a throne. “Evey?” he says again, his voice barely a whisper.

“No!” she screeches.

“I missed you, darling.”

“No!”

“All right. It’s all right.” His voice is so soft, and I can’t interpret his tone. “You can stay under there as long as you need to.”

She scoots further under the crib. His shoulders sag in defeat. And then there’s a long silence. I’m mesmerized. My boss, the Professor of the Underground, is on the floor, waiting for a little girl. Completely subdued. At her mercy.

My respect for the crime boss is waning.  How is this the man who pays me to kill people?  How is this the man who made a toothbrush from his previous Chief of Staff's femur just to prove to his employees how fucked up he was?  Who the fuck is  _ Jim _ Moriarty and why does he wear the Professor’s skin?  (And worse yet, why do I find myself  _ worried _ about him and his fucking kiddo?)

When the quiet sobbing stops, she crawls out from under the crib and her little ( _ so fucking tiny _ ) leg swings at her Daddy. Then her hands slap against his face, his shoulders, his arms. She melts into this tornado of violence and wailing and screaming. And he . . . he just lets her. He doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t withdraw or make a sound or anything.

“Evelyn, don’t hit,” I tell her. I’m shocked at how puny my own voice sounds.

“It’s fine.” The boss waves me away. “She’s fine.”  He hasn’t a clue that I’m here. 

“I _  hate you _ ,” the toddler screeches. “ _ Hate you _ .” She swings for his face again. He could stop the impact. He doesn’t.

“Can I hold you, Evelyn?”

“ _ No _ !” Her entire face is wet with tears and snot.  Her tiny little voice is pitched up to a glass-shattering frequency.

He holds out his hand to her. I should leave. My involvement ended several minutes ago. Hell, I didn’t even have to go pick her up. I could’ve been in my own flat a half hour ago. She looks at his open palm and smacks it, over and over and over again, and then finally, his fingers close over her ( _ fragile) _ hand, slow and gentle.

“I’m so sorry, Evelyn.” He sounds even more hoarse than when I picked him up two hours ago. “ _ A leanbh _ , I’m so, so sorry.”  Being back in his flat, I think, is actually making his condition worse.  So is seeing his daughter.

She stops swinging and kicking but her crying intensifies and the Professor eases her towards him, wrapping his arms around her, tucking her tiny head of wild curls under his chin. “No,” she sobs. “No, no, no.”

He lifts her off the ground, and I have to stop myself from reaching to catch her, fearful that he’ll drop her. Or that he’ll fall.  It’s not my place to catch Jim Moriarty, just my job to protect the Professor.

But he doesn’t fall.  He doesn’t drop her. He’s got her, and he’s steady.  “I’ll never, ever, ever leave you again, darling. Ever.”

“No!” she spits angrily at him, even as her arms squeeze his neck and her fists grip tight the collar of his shirt. She wipes her face against his shoulder. “No,” she says again, softer this time.

“I promise I’ll never be gone ever again. I promise.”

She murmurs something angry into his chest, shaking her head.

“It’s all right, precious. You can be angry for the rest of your life if you want to. I’ll be here.  Shh, shh. I’ll always be here.”

She breaks into a new series of sobs, these ones sounding less like they came from the pit of Hell. I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t think she does either.  

The Professor kisses her hair, and it’s like a dam breaks inside of him. Suddenly he is pressing a million kisses to her hair, her face, her hands.

“So, are you two, erm, are you okay?”

He starts. “Jesus, Moran, why are you still here?”

“I thought you might. . . I don’t know.”

“We’re okay. Or we will be. Right, Evelyn?”

“No,” she says again, hiding her face in his neck.

He turns around to face me, and holy God, there are tears. There are actual tears in his eyes and on his face. As if he didn’t look pitiful enough with the bags under his blackened eyes and his split lip, now he’s undeniably fucking crying.

_ This is my employer? _

“Leave, Basher.” 

No need to tell me twice.  “Are you sure?” Why did I ask that?  If he says “no” would I stay?

He sniffles and takes a deep breath. He straightens his shoulders and rolls his head like a snake sizing up its opponent. He sounds like his old self when he says, “You’ve done your duty. Go on home, Colonel.”

“You’re not--you won’t hurt her, right? Boss?”

His eyes close again, and he leans his cheek against her head. Bitterly, he asks, “What more could I possibly do to her?”

“Don’t--don’t drop her. Your hands . . .”

“She’s fine. I’ve got her.” He buries his face in her hair, and fuck, he’s still crying. He’s legitimately weeping.  Evelyn’s teeny little fingers curl into the hair on the back of his neck and hold on for dear life.

I reach out to touch his shoulder, then stop myself.

_ This isn’t mine. _ This isn’t my family or my problem. The Boss fucked up, that’s on him. And his weird kid’s psychological damage is his to deal with.

Like he said, I’ve done my duty.


	10. Loosing

_ November, 2011 | Basher’s POV _

James Moriarty shot himself.

I watched him shoot himself.

He’s dead.

_ Fuck. _

My pulse, always steady even under pressure, booms in my ears with a quickening pace. The fight or flight instinct is in full-swing: my entire being is tense and numb and hot. I try to breathe. Try to breathe.

_ One breath in.  Hold. Exhale. Slow.  Another breath in . . . _

“What the hell, prof?” I hiss as I pack up my shit, quick as I can. 

Making my way from Smithfield to Islington, I’ve no idea what my plan is.  I’ve no idea what  _ his _ plan was.  I just have to get to Evelyn before the Ice Man does.

I don’t want to be stuck with Moriarty’s pet weed. I don’t want to give up my life of whores and early morning runs and shooting and cards, and I can’t say that I will. I just have to get to Evelyn before her Daddy’s enemies do. 

I grab a cab; it’ll leave a trail, I know, but speed is more important than caution at this point. Everything’s falling apart. My career. My life. The empire I was supposed to be protecting.

The life that Evelyn might’ve had.

And, for the love of God, I cannot tell you why that bothers me. It’s her life, her problem. She annoys the hell out of me. 

She’s alone.  She has no one to protect her.

The Professor promised to never, ever leave her again.

And yet, here we are. The fucking madman. The shit-eating, promise-breaking maniac has left his daughter. Again.

The story pops into my head of Jim Jones, the Kool-Aid Cult Leader, whose flock died in one massive wave of suicides. I feel cold all over.

Moriarty is a maniac, a complete psychopath.  I can’t expect him to be anything different. I brace myself for the image of Evelyn’s tiny little body, lifeless and cold.

Who knows what the Professor’s concocted? Maybe she’s a lure. Maybe as soon as I open the door, a bomb will go off, or an axe will fall on me.

Still, I can't stop myself from reaching his apartment. I toss cash at the driver, hoping its enough and dash up to the fourth floor of the building. I don’t even try the doorknob, I just ram the door down, and in my panic, I don’t even feel the break of my collarbone.

“Evelyn!” I scream. “Evelyn, we have to go!”

No answer. My stomach drops. Has something happened to her? Is she dead? Has the Professor killed her?  Had she gotten sick?

Cold dread claws its way up my spine as I search the vacant rooms.  Everything’s been left as it was, save for a few of Evelyn’s favorite toys and books, and two or three of Moriarty’s favorite suits. Goddamn that motherfucking child. And her suicidal bastard coward of a father.

It makes sense, of course, that she wouldn’t be home alone, by herself, assuming she is still alive. I can’t imagine, though, that she’s still going to Play Group since “Rich” has been fingered as Holmes’s Pretend Villain.

Breathless, I slump onto the sofa. Why the fuck had Moriarty shot himself? What had happened? Something must’ve changed, right? What if…?

My mind goes wild with ways Evelyn could’ve been eliminated.  She wasn’t well when we found her. It’s flu season. Childhood cancers.  What if the Ice Man got her?  What if that bloody detective found her?

Oh my God.

_ Oh my God. _

She’s so little.

No. She’s. Not. My. God. Damn. Problem.

_ Stop. _

Through gusty, icy wind and rain, I hurry to a church. I’m not really sure why, my last confession was just last week, and I haven’t murdered anyone since but . . .

_ God, she was so little. _

Her whole entire little bitty hand held my thumb once. She fell asleep while I read to her about outer space and dinosaurs and sharks. She called me “Tiga.” And then she called me “Papa.”

The idea that something could happen to her that could erase all that. . .

Do I need a church or a pint?

She’s not my problem.  (And I don’t believe that for a second.)

~~

I feel a little better after confession and acetaminophen. Like I can remember who I am. The little girl is not my problem. Neither is Moriarty.

I’m Colonel Sebastian Moran. Dishonorably discharged for forcing prisoners to play Russian Roulette, killing endangered large cats and selling their skins, and, unofficially, sleeping with the Major General’s daughter on her eighteenth birthday.

And so I’m okay with never knowing. I think.

I walk home, rain washing down my face. My jeans feel heavy and stick to my legs. Water has seeped into my boots. Why anyone would move to this godforsaken section of the world is beyond me.

Maybe I’ll go back to India. I’ve got connections there. I’m in good standing with Madam Vora; maybe she’d hire me as a bodyguard. I can’t stay here, though. With Moriarty gone, who knows what information will come to light. I laugh, thinking about my dad’s face if and when the  _ Daily Mail _ breaks the story about the ex-colonel-turned-assassin for pretend-actor Rich Brook/James Moriarty. Maybe the bastard will lose his job. He should. He is a shitty ambassador.

God, this day has been a wild fucking ride.

But I’m okay. I’m always okay.

I wonder what Anisa’s doing. . .

“Tiga Papa!”

I turn around to see a head of black curls bouncing beneath the herd of umbrellas and busy passersby. Evelyn is running clumsily towards me, and I’m afraid that maybe Moriarty drugged me, that maybe I’m being ushered into heaven. Fuck, maybe that’s why I felt compelled to go to confession.

Then she trips, laughs, and continues running towards me. “Papa Tiga!” Angels tripping isn’t mentioned in the Bible, so I assume this is reality.

Not that Evelyn is an angel. She’s a pain in my arse.

“Quickly, sweetheart,” a voice calls from the crowd. It’s Moriarty’s, I’m sure of it, but he’s lost in the crowd.

She leaps at me, and on instinct, I catch her. She plants a big wet kiss on my cheek. “Bye bye, Papa Tiga!”

“Hi, sweet--Evelyn. Hi Evelyn. What are you--where’s--are you okay?”  I’m scanning her face for signs of injury, counting her little fingers to ensure they’re all present, feeling her forehead for a fever.

“Um, I’m just really frustrated that we’re out of strawberries.”

God, six months later, and she is still so annoying. Her “r”s are either “w”s or non-existent. This shit is exactly what you get when you read to your fucking kids. They talk pretentious bullshit about fruit before they can manage fucking proper pronunciation.  I just want to punt her into traffic.

“Don’t feel too excited, Basher; she also insisted on saying goodbye to her dentist.”

Moriarty, sporting a bizarre moustache and bright blue contacts, is about two feet away from me, under a garish cartoon-themed umbrella. Something looks a little different, but it’s definitely him. Probably some weird plaster thing. He’s done it to break into nursing homes before.

“Doc Yama gave me dis!” She thrusts a lolly in my eye. Rotten little bitch, always trying to give me a black eye.

“What--You . . . Boss, how are you alive?”

“No time, Bash.”  He yawns to emphasize how little interest he has in  _ that  _ conversation.  “Come along, dear.”

Evelyn wriggles out of my arms and runs under the umbrella of her father.  He lifts her up and balances her on his hip, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He gives her this smile that freezes over hell.  “Yeah, Tiga, no time. We’re riding a shooting star!”

“You’re going to be sorely disappointed, my dear,” Moriarty says. “It’s a train.”

“It’s a shooting star!”

“Eurostar,” he explains to me before he turns away.  

I watch them walk away, the rain easing up to an aggressive drizzle. “What--Stop--” I catch up and block the wheel of the rolling suitcase with the soaked toe of my boot. He gives me a death glare. I return it. “Just. . . call me if you run into trouble.”

Moriarty considers this in his strange reptilian way. “I’ve left you a note.  John got one. I thought you might want one too.” He winks and offers his hand. “Good luck, Colonel.”

It dawns on me that I’ve never actually touched Moriarty. His hands are pristine, clear of any evidence that he’d shot himself in the head an hour and a half ago, nails perfectly manicured, his fingers thin and delicate. It seems weird to shake his hand now when I’ll probably never see him again.

His hand is so small in my own. How the fuck does he plan to protect his little weed with those lean, unworked hands? I give his hand a quick shake, and he turns to go again, but now Evelyn wants to shake my hand.

“No, get outta here.”

“Shake her hand,” Moriarty murmurs.

“Don’t you have star to catch?”

“Shake my hand!” Evelyn demands.

“Quickly, Basher,” Moriarty growls. “We really can’t be in one place for too long.”

I sigh and bend down to take Evelyn’s hand. Oh my God, her hand is even smaller. Her small, fragile little hand. Who is going to protect her?

It’s not my problem. It’s not.

Moriarty made his choice. He picked fake suicide. He picked adopting a throwaway kid. He picked this life. It’s his shit to sort out.

Seconds later, he’s gone, blended into the fabric of London’s transience.

I feel quiet. Empty. What’s next?

I pop into a pub, grab a pint, start a fight, then hit my place to pack or find Moriarty’s note or maybe just get pissed. I’ll sort out the other details later. The adrenaline wears off and the fracture in my collar bone is impossible to ignore.

_ Jameson it is then. _

~~

_ Basher,  _

_ Charles Augustus Magnusson is taking over the murder brokerage. You'll be his for assassinations, intimidation, etc. So, essentially, he’d be your pimp. Which is fine, you’re sort of a whore anyway. ;) Expect a call from him tonight. _

_ It’s been fun, Tiger.  _

_ xo,  _

_ jm _

_ P.S. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about Evelyn. _


	11. Anchor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was editing this I remembered that the story that inspired this scene was Bram Stoker's "The Dualists." Not for the faint of heart.

_ December 2011 | Basher’s POV _

“I can’t find Evelyn.”

I turn my attention away from the scope of my L96 and stare at the screen of my mobile, an unknown number illuminating the darkness of the alleyway.  

An unfortunate side effect of having worked six years under Moriarty--it only takes a second to hook up to his wavelength again.  After a month of not hearing from him, of never expecting to hear from him again, I slide easily back into Chief of Staff mode. No need for formalities, no need for exposition.  I’m back to being his right hand man. “Lost or taken?" 

Magnussen had informed me that there was talk of my former employer surviving his suicide. I hadn’t confirmed it, just in case, but I’m sure he knows. There’s very little Magnussen doesn’t know.

But if there’s talk that Moriarty is alive, there could very well be a bounty on his head…. Someone could’ve come for Evelyn.  Hell, it could’ve been Magnussen.

The Professor's voice quavers. "Taken."

My stomach lurches, and my heart beats harder than I care to admit.

“Where are you?”

~~

Fourteen hours later, after a chat with Mags, who is such a fucking arsehole (he's docking my pay because I'm not immediately returning to London following an assassination in Cozumel), and three cups of ghastly airline coffee, I’ve left the warmth and sun of Mexico City and landed in the winter wasteland that is Bern, Switzerland.

God, I really bloody hate Europe.

I arrive at this little farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere, one that strangely suits Jim-Who-Adopted-A-Baby-On-The-Docks. It’s a nice little scene, the snow falling gently, smoke rising out of the chimney, except there’s a glaring pinprick of blood in the corner of the yard. Worse still, there are two  _ polizei _ cars in the driveway.

I exit the vehicle, bracing myself for whatever will happen next. Has Moriarty’s cover been blown? Is this a sting? Did he throw me under the bus? Has the Professor actually called the police to investigate? Civilian now or not, it seems very unlike the Professor to call in coppers.

My stomach sinks.

What if they found her…?

I think back to a funeral I worked in Afghanistan. A camel breeder’s son had been killed by one of my men. It was well-known the breeder had connections to extremist groups, and I was there to kill him. At the time, it hadn’t bothered me, seeing his child in the ground. Now the image keeps popping up in my mind, making me uneasy. I have to actively ward away the image of Moriarty's weed child in an identical grave. It makes it difficult to breathe.

I try to keep cool as I head to the front door. I've done my research, after all. If I need to escape, the woods behind the cottage are a kilometer and a half deep, backing up to a river. It probably hasn’t frozen over completely, but I can likely escape without getting wet. I wish I had followed through with my idea to plant a back-up vehicle at the petrol station across the river.

I’ll be ok. I’m always ok. I palm the buck knife inside my coat pocket. I’ve been shot and stabbed and burnt before. I can handle this.

Before I can knock, my ex-employer is wrapping his arms around my waist, speaking lowly. “Professor Addison O'Neill. You’re Elliott, a family friend.”

I pat his shoulder, trying to make it seem like this is a warm embrace, but mostly I just feel uncomfortable and a little agitated that he’s assigning roles at fucking performance time. “Police?” I ask, trying to keep my lips still.

He looks up at me, those black eyes one hundred percent Moriarty. “A necessary evil,” he breathes. Then his eyes soften, and I swear to God I hadn’t realized he’d been crying until just now. Like, I think he actually made his eyes red in the time that it took to say “a necessary evil." In the blink of an eye, The Professor went from grieving father, to villainous mastermind, back to grieving Father. The way he bats around human emotion like a cat toying with its prey terrifies me, frankly.

He lets go just as one of the officers steps closer, and says something to Moriarty in French. Moriarty answers, motioning to me. He looks exhausted now that there’s some distance between us. I worry it’s because he’s been up all night disposing of Evelyn’s remains. The Prof was never very good at disposal, surprisingly. In theory, he was; not so much in practice. He's too impatient to dissolve a body in acid, and he's too concerned about spatter to do the dismembering himself.

He turns back to me. “They cut off her finger.” Again, there’s all the venom and loathing in his face, replacing the feigned (maybe?) sorrow.

_ Jesus fucking Christ, her tiny little fingers. _

Someone is going to fucking eat their own goddamn eyeballs.

“She’s being held for ransom,” Moriarty says, a murderous grin on his face, turned so the officers can’t see. That face is the face of the man who hired me, the face of the man who opened our very first meeting with, “How comfortable are you removing vital organs while the “donor” is still breathing?”

So someone knows that he survived.

A million questions are burning the tip of my tongue. I have no idea how to behave like a civilian in this situation. The weight of the buck knife in my pocket is the only thing keeping me grounded.

“So why are we sitting here?” I glare at the two officers.

I realize for the first time that Moriarty’s grayed around his temples. Why the hell hasn’t he paid the ransom? God, I hate him so much.

Moriarty turns back to the coppers and says something that sends them off to another room, sending the devastated father sympathetic glances.

I grab the little shit by the collar. “Why the fuck don’t you just pay them?”

“I am, you idiot!”

“When?”

“As soon as they call me,” he says, and oh my God, his voice falters. There’s something like fear in his eyes. He’s not acting. Or maybe he is. “They. . . said they’d . . .”

“Prof?”

“Basher. . .” His bottom lip trembles slightly.

A surreal feeling of sympathy for my old boss blooms in my chest. This is not real life. I release him, and he stands there frozen, his black eyes wide and full of fear.

“Any idea who it might be?”

He shakes his head, fear painted across his face. Then he seems to snap out of it. He takes a deep breath, cracks his neck, and sets his shoulders. Those empty black eyes stare back at me, void of any feeling. His bottom lip stiffens, his jaw set. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and he’s Moriarty again.

“No. But find her. That’s an order. I’ll pay you whatever you want. And put down the animals that did this,” he says softly. He tilts his head ever so slightly, a playful albeit small smirk tugging at his mouth. 

See, this is something I can handle. This interaction is familiar and comfortable. I don’t question what is real from Moriarty when he’s like this, because I know that void where his heart should be is real.

~~

The Swiss police should be ashamed, because tracking these kidnapping fuckers is a walk in the park. I have an unearned reputation as an expert tracker because I tracked a wounded tiger down a drain. I say "unearned" because the damn tiger was actively bleeding his way to the drain; anyone with the ability to see red could "track" the beast. Knowing Moriarty, knowing his observational skills and his powers of deduction, I’m a bit baffled that he couldn’t find them on his own.

A romantic might say he was legitimately too disturbed about his daughter’s disappearance to notice the tell-tale signs that someone had recently been through the woods. And, while a romantic might say it (and I certainly don't consider myself a romantic), I wouldn’t voice any disagreement.

Their footprints end at the foot of the forest; the same corner of the yard speckled with blood. I’m guessing that’s why the coppers hadn’t found them. With the right skill set or even the right equipment, moving through the trees is simple enough. So while they hadn’t left footprints indicating where they’d gone, they had knocked powdery snow off of the trees so that flashes of dead gray bark and bright green pine stuck out among the white like lightning in a black sky.

I follow their trail across the river (cracked ice here and there, indicative of too much undisplaced weight) to a series of footprints, now mostly covered in by the snow, along a backroad. There have been maybe four or five cars pass through in recent hours. What catches my eye is the wet, recently disturbed mud. Someone had parked their car here and hadn’t bothered to cover their tire tracks. They’d been here a while, with the vehicle on, melting the snow and the earth beneath, creating fresh mud. It looked as though they might even have gotten stuck.

I follow the tire tracks even after the sun goes down.

~~

My knife digs into some chubby little shit's throat in the kitchen of some abandoned house. His buddies are all downstairs, oblivious to his predicament. And even if they weren't, I’ve jammed their mobile signals, so I’m not worried about anyone calling for help.

I should ask him why they’re doing this, what his goddamn motive is for hurting my little girl.

Instead . . .

The knife slices beneath his earlobe through the epidermis, connective tissue, lower and deeper to sever the trachea, then the epiglottis. He tries to scream, but his vocal cords are in pieces. My hand over his mouth keeps his fight for oxygen silent. He struggles, struggles, struggles, then goes limp.

The kitchen is dark. I tug off his shoes, careful to avoid getting blood on my own shoes. Once my feet are jammed into his tiny shoes, I pull his barely-alive body flush against mine. The idiot keeps his gun stuffed down the back of his trousers. (My guess is he was supposed to “stand guard.” He did a bang-up job, I’m sure.) I retrieve it, my hands covered with a cloth to avoid leaving evidence. Once it’s in his hand, I close my hand over his and test out his mobility. He’s shorter than I am, but I think I can adjust my aim enough to do the job.

And so, with my newly dead human shield/framed murderer, I head toward the basement.

I don’t recognize any of these fuckers. I don’t recognize the language, I don’t recognize the graffiti scrawled along the wall, I don’t recognize the MO.

I also don’t care.

_ pop _

I don't bother to announce myself. I just watch the group register my presence as one man goes down before he can start bleeding. All eyes are on me, shortly followed by all weapons. Well, they think, anyway. This is amateur hour; they don’t even know how to hold a gun. Half of them have their guns cocked to the side, undoubtedly something they’ve seen in movies.

_ pop _

Another one goes down.

A bullet whizzes through the air a half-meter to my left.

“Where’s my little girl?” I ask.

“Huh?”

_ pop _

“Where’s. My. Little. Girl?” A bullet burrows its way into Mr. Huh’s shoulder.

Suddenly there’s a lot of screaming and panicking, as if the severity of their situation has just dawned on them.

“Shut up!” I bellow, taking down some fucker who wants to be a hero and lunges at me.

“Please, the east wind--” someone says, “please, it was a joke. You know, a joke.” I can’t place the accent.  “She said it would be funny!”

I laugh. “Oh I get it.”

I shoot her between the eyes.

“That’s fucking hilarious." I grab some punk kid by the hair and hold the gun against his temple. "Really. It's hilarious."

The fucker starts to cry.

_ pop _

There’s only a few left now. The one I shot in the shoulder stands to charge me. I make my human shield pull the trigger, issuing a bullet through Shoulder Victim’s eye. "Hysterical, in fact! I can't stop" _ pop _ "fucking"  _ pop _ "laughing."

“I can’t stop laughing!” I repeat and for the first time, I realize I’m shouting. I realize that I’m positively livid. That my blood is boiling. I want to bash their heads against one another until brain matter paints the walls.

There’s a series of pops as the remaining few try to off me, but mostly their instincts are telling them _ “pull the trigger, maybe the loud sound will scare away the predator,” _ and collectively their aim has gotten infinitely worse.

When there’s one left, I wait until he’s out of ammo, until he’s hurled his weapon at me in one final attempt at defense, and then I crowd him against the wall. “Where’s my little girl?”

“No english!” he screeches. "Mother!" Tears pour out of his eyes.

“Where. Is. She?!” Suddenly, the last kidnapper is full of bullets, and my clip is empty. And I’m still clicking the trigger. Holy fuck, I can’t stop.

“Evelyn!” I shout, my throat burning from the desperation in my voice. I toss the shield to the ground. “Evelyn!” I splash through the blood, listening to the groans of air escaping dead bodies, hoping maybe one of the sounds will be Evelyn.

I search the empty rooms. There’s a body already in the bathroom shower, a prostitute from the looks of it. Been there a while. God, I hope Evelyn hasn’t seen it.

And then I come to a kennel in the corner. A mother. Fucking. Kennel. My little girl is a goddamn kennel, her eyes closed and her body unmoving.

Screaming, I collapse to her side. I check her pulse. Still there. Relatively strong. Her chest rises and falls in slow, wheezy breaths. Thank God.

I pull her out as gently as I can given how desperately and quickly I want to hold her against me. “Evelyn?” I pull her to my chest to feel her breathe. Her warm breath wafts against my neck. I feel her eyelashes flutter against my cheek. "Darling, you okay?"

After a quick check to make sure there’s no serious wounds, I come to the conclusion that she’s been drugged. I turn off the signal jammer, put the shoes on the shield so that it looks like he’s the one that’s been rushing around the house with blood on his feet, and then I grab one of the dead fucker’s phones to call Moriarty.

I don’t put Evelyn down for a second.

~~

I stage the scene to look like Human Shield killed his buddies then himself. Of course, forensics, if the investigation goes that far, will determine that the gaping wound in his throat couldn’t be self-inflicted. I’m not too terribly worried.

I watch from the woods as police surround the house. They take for-goddamn-ever to get inside and get Evelyn. Once I see her passed off to a first responder, I determine it’s time to head back to Moriarty’s.

Everyone is gone by the time I get there. No Professor, no police, and definitely no Evelyn. After a long, hot shower and some piping hot tea (have I mentioned how much I loathe the cold?), I drive through the snow to the hospital. I’ve not asked Moriarty anything, and he hasn’t provided any information regarding her condition. My stomach is in knots. She was fine when I had her in my arms. She was breathing, she had a strong pulse.

_ What if she was overdosed? _

_ What if the medical team fucked up? _

_ What if she got an infection? _

_ What if I missed something? _

I find Moriarty in the waiting room, his eyes black and hollow. He’s hunched over, elbows on his knees, completely still save for his fingers tapping his knee. I take a seat beside him and wait for him to come back to reality.

This feels so routine.  Like we’d never stepped out of the beat of our partnership.

After ten minutes or so, he sighs heavily and leans back in his chair. He cracks his neck. “So, how much do you want?”

“Thirty thousand.”

He chuckles at the relatively cheap price. “Am I getting a friend’s discount?”

“No, you're gonna tell me why you picked her. Why didn’t you just leave her on the docks?”

He flashes that crooked Moriarty grin. “She was perfect,” he says as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You can’t interrogate Moriarty. You have to be careful what you ask--there’s a limited number of questions he’ll answer, and he sure as hell won’t identify that limit for you. So I think it through, think what I’m going to ask next.

“If they can’t reattach her finger--which is a very real possibility given how long it’s been--will you toss her out? Because she’s imperfect?”

His eyes darken. “Shut your fucking mouth, Basher. Her  _ finger _ doesn’t make her perfect; she just is.”

Oh. I think I understand. I lean back, mulling over my theory.

The Professor is not pleased. He punches at my chest, hard enough that it might actually bruise. “What?”

“What what, you fucking bastard?!” I shout, earning a couple of disdainful glances from the three other people in the room. “Damn you." I'm chuckling a little, surprised at his expression. He's bothered about what I might think. Poor little Prof. It has been a long thirty-six hours, I'm sure.

“You’re smirking.”

“Uh no, I’m not.” I'm trying my damnedest not to grin.

“Uh yes, you are,” he mimics back. “Whatever you're thinking, stop."

“I think it was love at first sight, and because you loved her the moment you saw her, you think she’s perfect.”

“That’s absurd.” He isn’t convincing.

“What made her perfect?” I challenge.

He doesn’t say anything.

I’m laughing. “Because it certainly wasn’t the sores all over her skin or the fact that she’d wallowed in her own shit for God knows how long. In fact, she had a fever, proof that something was wrong with her. She wasn’t perfect. Far from it.” I don’t know why I’m goading him, but I am. His pudgy little face is turning red.

He rears back and slaps me hard across the face. I can’t help but laugh through the sting. “Damn, almost knocked me outta my seat, there, boss.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“Shush shush shush,” I say, still smiling. I grab his weak wrists, keeping his assault from full manifestation. “I’m sorry; I’m sorry, you’re right. She is perfect.”

“Exactly,” he huffs, jerking his arms back to his side.

“Even without her finger.”

He nods, crossing his arms. “Exactly.”

“She loves you too, you know.”

“Love’s not real.  Moron.” James Moriarty huffs at me and turns to stare at the wall.

~~

Moriarty doesn’t know that I’m at the threshold of Evelyn’s hospital room. It’s a sweet scene, one that, if I didn’t know who he was or what he’s orchestrated, might be moving.

He taps each of her fingertips while she sleeps, counting them. There’s one less now, but on the tenth count, he taps her nose. Gently. Very gently. The doctors were apprehensive about the amount of muscle relaxers in her system; they flushed most of them out before the failed attempt to reattach her finger, but she was still exhausted and had some trouble breathing.

I don’t know if she’s been awake. They’ve only just allowed me in the room.

The Prof taps on.

“Daddy,” comes the weak groan.

I can see the change in his demeanor. I imagine he’s smiling. “Yes, princess?”

“Stop, I’m tryna seep.”

Jim--The Prof--laughs this soft, sweet laugh, pulling her against him to kiss her again and again and again. “But I’ve missed you so much.”

She giggles, still half-asleep.

“Scooch over, silly girl. I want to sleep too.”

“No, dis my bed.”

“No sharing?” Jim pouts.

“Um. . . okay.” Sluggishly, she scoots, barely giving Jim--goddamn it--Moriarty enough room. I think I can hear my heart shattering as she snuggles against his chest. He holds both her hands to his face and kisses them.

I’m disturbed at what this little scene evokes in me.

Pride? Protectiveness?

He is not my friend. She is not my little girl. This is not my troop. Not my family.

Jesus Christ, I’m glad she’s okay. I’m glad that Jim still loves her even though she’s not symmetrical now. I’m glad that this parody of a family is back together.

I’m even gladder to be on the plane that gets me the hell away from them.


	12. The Third Good Deed of Jim Moriarty

_ Winter 2012 | Letter from Sister Emma Bohren _ _   
_ **_Postmarked from Tokyo, Japan_ **

_ March 21, 2012  _

_ Dear Mr. Brook, _

Hatred stirs up strife, but love covers all transgressions. Proverbs 10:12

_ I start my letter to you this way, Mr. Brook, because when I first saw you, I recognized you for who you were: that terrible man who committed those murders, those frauds, those kidnappings with the disgraced consulting detective Mr. Holmes. _

_ I say this, not to alarm, nor to put you on guard, for I have no intentions of exposing you or your wonderful little girl. Instead, I am writing you to tell you that your love for your daughter has brought me my own redemption. _

_ Nuns read the news, of course, so we were all quite fond of the Sherlock Holmes stories and Dr. Watson’s weblog. Sister Agathe was so distraught when Holmes was exposed as a fraud, and even more so when your death hit the newspapers. I think she fancied Holmes. I think we all did. And for you to step forward and tell the world that he’s a fraud--why, it was simply devastating. And then for Mr. Holmes to be your murderer--a travesty! _

_ And so, I simply despised you when you came to the church’s day program for children. I remember it was snowing, and sweet Evelyn was buried beneath your coat as you carried her inside. Your application named you as Addison O'Neill, Programming Professor at the university. You’d made it clear in your application that you had no interest in Evelyn’s spiritual life, nor did you believe in God, much less His Son. _

_ And when I asked why you would bring your child to a children’s program at a church, you gave me an honest answer. We had the best reviews. We’d come highly recommended. Since French and German were new to Evelyn, and since we had several English-speaking staff, you thought this the best place for her. _

_ I considered calling the police. I considered distracting you until they arrived. What a horrible man you had been, Mr. Brooks, accompanying that horrible fraud in his sins against God’s children. I didn’t realize the hardness of my heart, my pride that I was somehow superior to you because I served the Lord and you served man. And your very existence was a lie; by all accounts you were dead. _

_ But when Evelyn started to cry, your heartbreak was plain on your face. You murmured to her in English, soft and gentle and comforting, the way the Lord speaks to us. A still, small voice. _

_ You looked at Sister Agathe and said, “I’ve made a mistake. I’m sorry. She’s not ready. The move from Ireland’s been too traumatic. I’m sorry. Perhaps next year.” _

_ I knew then that while I hated you for your sins, I could never report you. I could not take from a child a father who loved her so dearly. _

_ “Please, sir, we see this all the time,” I told her, careful not to touch you lest your sin contaminate me. “Separation anxiety is all. Stay with her for a few minutes, and she will settle in.” _

_ You murmured to her again, and she shook her head, the poor dear. “Please?” you asked her. _

_ Silence passed between the two of you. She shrugged. “She’s a very anxious child,” you explained, the concern painfully evident on your face. Hurt, even. Something had happened to hurt both of you, and I wondered for a brief moment what you had done to the child. You absently kissed her forehead, an act of affection you didn’t even register, as most parents don’t, and I felt foolish for ever thinking you could harm this child. _

_ “I’ll stay and watch, if I may,” you said after a negotiation with Evelyn. _

_ She warmed up quickly, as most children do. Children are so resilient. Whatever happened to both of you, I assure you she will be fine.  I can’t write the same for you. Years of being unloved, I think, have damaged you, but who’s to say it is irreparable? _

_ After that first day, she didn’t need much coaching to join the other children while they played. You tried not to be disappointed at her eagerness to leave you. Like any decent parent, you want her to grow in healthy socialization. _

_ The Sisters and myself all loved Evelyn. We looked forward to seeing her every Tuesday and Thursday when the program was offered. She’s such a force of nature, but she’s gentle when she’s asked to be. She also notices things. She’s brilliant in that way. _

_ We didn’t tell the children about my diagnosis, of course. We doubted that it would be helpful to them and would likely cause them distress. But somehow Evelyn knew. She would pick flowers from the gardens and from the vestibule and deliver them to me. _

_ I don’t know the circumstances of her abduction, of course, only what the local newspapers reported. I can’t help but think that your previous life had a hand in what happened, but again, you were a spectacular father to her, and she is secure in your love for her. That’s the safety children truly need. _

_ Over those few short months that I knew the both of you, conviction pierced my heart and my pride. _

_ Romans tells us that all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God . . . _

_ I myself am no different than you. Your sins are no worse than mine, not before a holy God. We are both the crucified man beside Jesus on the Cross--guilty and broken and sanctified because love covers all transgressions. Your love of your child is redemptive for yourself and also for me. All our righteous acts are like filthy rags before the Lord, and yet love has healed our brokenness. _

_ Your love for Evelyn has convicted me of my hubris. I am no more equipped to judge you than I am equipped to judge the Savior of mankind. _

_ My last day at the program, after the doctor told me that the treatments were no longer working, Evelyn was secretive, watching me with a guilty look on her face, careful that I had not seen what she had done. It’s unusual for her to misbehave, and even more so for her to attempt to conceal her misbehavior, but since I could find no evidence of her misdeeds, I couldn’t confront her. _

_ She saw you coming up the breezeway to retrieve her for the day, and she ran from the classroom. Sister Agathe gave chase, because the cancer has made that sort of movement much too painful for me. She returned a moment later with you in tow and Evelyn grinning impishly in your arms. _

_ Her dark eyes, which look so much like yours, met mine and she wriggled from your grasp and ran to me where I sat in my chair, exhausted. She was clutching something beneath her coat. _

_ “I made this for you!” she announced, shoving a beautiful handmade card into my hand. She picked up French so quickly—all the Sisters talk about how easily languages clicked with her.  “And everyone signed it!” Most of the children aren’t as gifted as Evelyn—they weren’t able to write their names, but instead squiggled a series of letters and numbers. On the front in childish print read “Get Well Soon.” _

_ And she hugged me so tight and kissed my cheek. Has anything ever been more redemptive, more life-giving than the love of a child? _

_ “Evelyn, get your things, please,” you asked her, and she obeyed, but not before winking at me. You knelt beside me, your face blank and you asked, “What’s happened?” _

_ I give you the short and simple answer of “cancer” and it’s not enough. You ask about treatment options, what’s been attempted, why it’s not been working, and so on, and I’m a religious women, Mr. Brooks, not a physician, so I wasn’t able to provide the in-depth answers that you needed except that the cells in my bloodstream were no longer behaving as they should. _

_ “I love you, Sister Emma! You’ll feel better soon!” Evelyn shouted, kissing me one time before hurling herself into your arms. As the two of you left, I noticed she’s had you sign your name as well. _

_ Imagine my surprise when, a few days later, the Bishop comes to me, explaining that if I choose to accept, someone has paid for my travel, lodging, and medical expenses to be apart of an experimental treatment study at Gunma University in Japan. An anonymous donor, but one who has assured the Bishop that I’ve been accepted into the study, despite my old age. _

_ I can only imagine someone like the mysterious Mr. Brook would have the resources to orchestrate such an endeavor. _

_ So, thank you, Mr. Brook. Thank you for reminding me of my own sinfulness, and thank you for your provision. The Lord works in mysterious ways, as they say. His ways are not ours. You’ve changed my heart, and it’s possible that you’ve prolonged my life, God willing. _

_ Through you, I have been healed. And possibly, medically and physically, I’ll be healed because of your generosity. _

_ All of my love to you and to Evelyn, _

_ Sister Emma Bohren _

_ ~~ _

_ April 1, 2012 _

_ Emma, _

_ God doesn’t heal people. Science and money do. _

_ xo, _

_ RB _


	13. The Fourth Good Deed of Jim Moriarty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for animal being wounded and all that nonsense. Real life is gorey. Also, I think this was my weird way of grieving a budgie I'd had to put down. She went in for surgery and never came home.

_May 2012 | Jim’s POV_

I don’t care for or about animals, and I say that with complete inclusivity. There is little to no difference between an ant, a dog, a human. I mean, obviously, there _are_ differences, but every single one of the creatures listed can be smushed with a proper stomping, and every single one has inborn instincts that drive what they do and how they behave.

We’re born into skin and skeletons that are controlled by hormones and chemistry, and I thought I’d been lucky enough to avoid such nonsense, but here I am, covering Evelyn’s eyes, knowing that the neighbor’s cat won’t clear the wheel of the moving van in time and trying to appear appropriately horrified myself.

The legless cat howling and bleeding all over the pavement in panicked zigzags doesn’t bother me a bit; but some unknown instinct bubbles up in me before the event even happens and I know that the sight will bother Evelyn--maybe even traumatize her. Never before had it even crossed my mind that gore was too much for a three year old, but suddenly, it just rings true. As a caregiver with an inexplicable, burdensome interest in Evelyn’s well-being, I have to cover her eyes. Instinct commands it.

Suddenly our new neighbors, the Baptist Lesbians are screaming and their offspring are joining them and our little corner of east Galveston, Texas has suddenly erupted into bloody chaos. I have to conceal my laughter, because one, laughing at a maimed cat is inappropriate, and two, because Evelyn’s tiny fingernails are digging into my hand. She’s starting to panic. Her breaths are fast and choppy.

Before she can get in the full swing, I lift her up and tuck her head beneath my chin. “It’s all right, my dear.  I’m here. Deep breaths for Daddy. That’s my girl.”

“Blizzard!” she squeals. “Wha’ happen?!”

Oh shit. This is one of those fucking awful parenting moments where you will inevitably fuck up your kid.  It’s unavoidable. On the one hand you have, “Blizzard is on a farm now where he can catch mice all day,” where your kiddo has absolutely no concept of death until one day the stark reality of an animal-shaped void is just there, and you’ve no control over it, and they’re unpreparedness leaves them crushed; on the other, “Blizzard has probably run off to die, love,” where your impressionable, innocent child has to come to grips with the reality of death and be fearful that at any moment, tragedy will strike.

It’s a lose-lose situation.

I hesitate. She tangles her arms around my neck, clinging tightly to me. “Daddy, fix ‘im!”

“I can’t, princess, I don’t even know where he went.” And if I did find him, I’d probably just bash his skull in, because cats slowly dying in agony is actually the worst sound in the world. Dying animals, on the whole, don’t faze me, but, dear me, do cats _linger_.

She looks up at me with wet eyes, her bottom lip trembling. “Daddy, fix ‘im.”

Because she thinks that I can. I was once the most powerful man in the world. To Evelyn, I still am.

Poor idiot child.

My precious little girl.

I set her back on the ground and motion to the Lesbians to come over. Evelyn clings to my hand, tapping my knuckles anxiously. My chest feels like it will burst every time she mimics my tics. She’s so clever, so observant.

“Amber and I will go find Blizzard. If he’s alive when we find him, we’ll take him to the emergency vet. Evey, go inside with Susan.”

She wraps her arms around my leg, squeezing. There’s panic in her eyes again. “No, I wan’ go with you.”

“No, darling.”

“Please?”

She doesn’t want to be away, and honestly I don’t want her too either. Ever again. Sometimes I stay up all night watching her sleep, counting her breaths, tapping her fingers, because it’s the only thing that settles the neurons releasing norepinephrine that make my heart pound, and my limbs tense like I’m actually afraid of something.

Before Evelyn, I’d never been “anxious.” Now I’m constantly anxious.

Lesbian 1 must see my struggle, because she takes Evelyn’s hand and explains to her that this is a job for adults. Evey protests that she’s “big” but follows nonetheless. I blow a kiss her way.

Lesbian 2 is already following the trail of blood, clicking her tongue in an attempt to summon the cat. I replay the incident in my head, then kneel over the abandoned leg on the blacktop. Even in May, the cement is so hot, the blood is sizzling into a Texan blood pudding.

From a purely scientific point of view, taking out of the account my own sadism, I’m impressed at the sheer serendipity of the situation. The tire caught the cat’s leg at just the right angle to sever it from the hip, effectively shredding through muscle, tissue, and joint. In a million years, it would be almost impossible to see that again. At a glance, it would appear the leg was torn off at the joint. I think maybe, if the beast hadn’t darted off in a panic, the leg may have simply been disconnected.

I pick up the remaining piece to examine it. Lesbian 2 gasps then follows it up with a saddish sound. People do get so sentimental about their pets.

We follow the zigzags of blood through my yard into our other neighbor’s yard who I haven’t met and have no desire to meet, unless he’s an attractive detective who happened to survive his jump from a hospital roof.

I can’t help but laugh when my brain whispers _killsherlock_. Damned serotonin hasn’t fully formed new pathways to “end” obsessive thoughts.  

_We’ve already accomplished that; moving on. . ._

Blizzard is under a stranger’s porch, its breath shallow and ragged. It doesn’t react when I reach for him.

“Is he dead?” Lesbian 2 asks. Does she understand how pitiful she sounds? Pull yourself together, woman.

“Shock.” I grab it by the scruff of its neck and pull it back into the sunshine. The fur is still warm from the sun but its mouth is open and its gums are cool to the touch. The skin beneath fur is also chill. “Do you have anything to apply pressure to the wound?”

“I--I could run into the house! I’m sure there’s something!”

God, I hate panicked women. I try to sound neighborly when I say, “Perhaps the bandana around your head, dear?”

She reaches up to touch it. “Oh! Right! Yes!” She rips it from her forehead, bringing strands of hair along with it and hands it to me.

Why, yes, I would love to touch your sweaty, undertreated hair while I bandage your fucking cat. This is why London is more my speed. I lived beside my neighbors for seven years—we never said a word to one another. I move into a house in Galveston and suddenly there’s five pecan pies on my doorstep and two Baptist Lesbians waving from their driveway.

I glare at her but bandage the beast anyway. It’s difficult because the wound is concave, rather than being on an outer bodypart, but we manage.

Lesbian 2’s eyes are wide and her freckled face has gone white. “There’s so much blood,” she whispers and starts to waver.

For a moment, I contemplate leaving her here to faint. “Amber,” I say in a gruff voice, one that effectively pulls her out of her vagal syncope. “Go and fetch the car. Quickly, dear.”

She scurries away on weak legs, leaving me holding her bleeding, dying creature. I should just bash its brains in. _“Oh, so sorry, dear, I dropped him. Yes, it is unusual that the force of the fall was enough to brain him, but these things do happen. . .”_

Lesbian 2 meets me in the cul-de-sac, the white mini-van full of children, including mine.

“Get in, Daddy! Quick!”

Oooh, I do not want to go with the Lesbians to the emergency vet. At all. “Evelyn, I think this is a family matter. Let’s go ins--”

“Oh no!” Lesbian 1 counters me. “Oh, Addison! You are family!”

No, I’m fucking _not_. Texans are a strange breed of primate. Overly friendly, casually bigoted, inanely talkative. . .

The cat mewls pitifully in my arms, prompting Evelyn and the other small children to squeal in horror. Evelyn’s profound look of horror seals the deal, and I slide into the juice-stained, biscuit-crumb-littered back seat.

~~

Lucky for me, Addison O'Neill has a sense of style that makes his clothes easily replaceable. Cat blood stains my khakis and tee. I find myself wondering about feline AIDS, though. My dear old bitch of a mother always told me my lifestyle would lead to AIDS . . . I almost wish there was a Hell so that I could enjoy her eternal damnation. (The circumstances surrounding her death were not dissimilar to Blizzard's current situation. The only real difference was the involvement of a good hard shove and a train.)

I shouldn’t be chuckling. I turn it into a cough.

Lesbian 1 is comforting her demon children, who are wailing and gnashing their teeth, and she doesn’t seem to realize that her fawning over them and her own apprehension is only doubling their anxiety. Evelyn has buried her head against my neck, her tiny form buzzing with apprehension. Her fingers tap my shoulder. _One, three, one, four, one, two._

That’s my pattern, the one I tap in when I’m thinking. That paternal pride bubbles up again. You know, any time I interact with other people’s children, I intuitively know that they, as parents, are jealous of how much better Evelyn is at everything than their shitty children.

I literally have the best child in the whole entire world, and I found her on the docks in Scotland.

Lesbian 2 comes out of the exam room, eyes red. Lesbian 1 dashes over to her, her gaggle of offspring following.

There’s a brief discussion and then the wailing intensifies. “You have to! You have to, mama!”

“Amber, Blizzard is family!”  (Apparently, “family” in Texas qualifies as anything you laid eyes on one time and didn’t instantly despise.)

“Susan, please don’t do this in front of them.”

Evelyn’s fingers stop tapping and grip the short hairs on the back of my neck. She listens intently.

“Babe, there is just no way.”

Evelyn pulls back to look me in the face. Her eyes are wide and red with tears. She swallows thickly. “Fix ‘im.”

“There’s nothing I can do, darling.”

The fear behind her eyes shatters every neural pathway I’ve ever developed. One day Evelyn will learn that I’m not magical, that I can’t fix everything, that, just like everyone and everything else, I’m bound by the laws of biology and physics. But, as they say, today is not that day.

Because I left her once and I lost her once, and if she still thinks I can do anything, I’m not ready to destroy that illusion. Poor, dumb precious baby. I set her down, making no promises, and walk up to the screaming family. I drag the saner Lesbian aside.

“What’s happened, Amber?”

Through hysterics, she tells me that Blizzard has lost a lot of blood, that he’ll need a transfusion, that they’ll need to stymie the bleeding where his leg used to be, la la la, I’m sorry I asked. “Okay,” I stop her blubbering, putting on the Nice Neighbor mask, “so, does the vet believe it--the cat--is salvageable?”

She shrugs. “He doesn’t know. He’s not sure. He has some internal bleeding, too.”

Jesus, get to the point, woman. “So what is he suggesting?”

“Surgery.”

“So, are you going to do the surgery?”

“He’s an old cat, and it’s going to cost more than my car, and it’s just not financially sound.”

I shrug. If money is the issue here, then Evey’s right, I can fix this. I don’t want to withstand the flood of gratefulness and hugs and jackassery that will follow telling Lesbian 2 that, though. “Evey, love, come here, please.” (I’ll be damned if she doesn’t see that I’m actively fixing this beast.) I brush past Lesbian 2, through the exam room, and through the door that leads to the “back” where all the interesting stuff goes on.

I sign as a guarantor for the surgery and transfusion payments.

~~

Evelyn is beside me, both of us crouched behind the sofa. “Daddy, why we hidin’?” she whispers.

I don’t know how to answer that. "We’re hiding from the Lesbians” seems like something one shouldn’t say to their child, especially in light of Texas' general feelings towards homosexuality. “Because I have a headache, and I don’t want to talk with Miss Amber and Miss Susan.”

I can hear them outside my front-door, discussing if I’m here or not, if they should leave the cake on my doorstep, if they should send a text about having me over for dinner, et cetera, et cetera. This is why the side of the angels is so boring. It’s full of tedious gratitude and polite interactions and social ceremony and it makes me wish that I hadn’t used blanks to shoot myself on the rooftop of St. Bart’s.

Evelyn seems to accept this answer. She rests her head on my arm. “To clarify, my rascally little miss, you may not do the same to me.”

She giggles, and an iceberg somewhere on the other side of the world melts, and I kiss her cheek.

“But we’ll go over to see Blizzard at some point this evening, okay?”

She tenses up with excitement, her eyes going wide. “Be gentle with ‘im,” she reminds herself.

“Right, because he’s still healing.”

She nods. She taps her fingers along my arm. The Lesbians leave. “‘Cause you fixed ‘im.”

Evelyn believes I can do anything, and her faith in me convinces my reptile brain that she’s right. Of course, she’s not. But she doesn’t need to know that. Especially when I’ve failed her twice before.

Not that it matters that I’ve failed her. Not that she matters at all.

Being a father is fucking horrible. No wonder mine drank himself to death. Well, that’s not fair, is it? He was actively killing himself with alcohol but the poison definitely sped up the process.

“Just for you, angel.”

Evelyn laces her small fingers between mine, then taps the tips with her other hand. My breath catches in my chest.

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Why we still hidin’?”

“Are you bored?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you like to go to the planetarium?”

Her eyes light up and her smile infects my face. I rest my forehead against hers, not quite ready to disrupt this moment of hand-holding and whispers. She butts upward, cackling. “Let’s go!”


	14. Growth, Part I

_ July 2012 | Basher’s POV _

_ The story of Professor Addison O'Neill, University of Bern's Irish-born Associate Professor of Programming at the Institute of Mathematical Statistics and Actuarial Science, was mostly untold, with only Bern’s local newspapers reporting on the kidnapping and subsequent murders. _

_ However, as photographs and timelines have come to light, speculation has surfaced that Professor O'Neill is really the exonerated James Moriarty, who also held a PhD in Statistics and Computer Programming. While there are no reports of the presumed-dead Moriarty ever having a child . . . _

I hurl the tablet onto the oak desk, noting the gleam in Magnussen's eyes. My instinct is to leap over the desk that separates us and strangle him before the article can go to print, but he's got two bodyguards behind him now, and without weapons, I don't know that I could take all three of them at once. So, I say nothing. He wants me to show my hand, and I'm not going to.

He smiles at me, this cat-eating-the-canary smile that fuels the fire burning inside of me. I'll kill him. I will shove a lead pipe into his ear and wait for the pressure to build until his eyes pop out and then I will fucking drill it into his brain.

This long silence stretches between us. I can't stop fidgeting, and the longer the silence grows, the higher my anxiety spikes.

Magnussen's office, all black and white smooth surfaces and large windows and digital screens, shouldn't contain an old-fashioned ticking clock, but it does, and the  _ tick, tick, tick _ makes my skin crawl. Is my little girl okay? Has something happened to her daddy? Who else knows that Moriarty is alive?

_ tick, tick, tick _

That goddamn clock is broken; it has to be. It's ticking too fast to be accounting for seconds.

_ tick, tick, tick _

I bet I could take all three of them.

I realize that my teeth are clenched tight enough to make my head throb. I'm gripping the arms of the chair I'm sitting in. Both of my feet are planted firmly on the ground. I'm not relaxed, and Mags can see all of it. That fucking arsehole is probably reading more into the silence than if I was actually speaking.

"So what?" I try to smirk back, willing my shoulder to relax and my jaw to release.

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. He says something to the guard to his left. I need to learn whatever the hell it is that the Danish speak. He turns back to me. "Would you care for a drink? You seem quite tense, little tiger."

I blink. I do not like all these non-females calling me "tiger," but this is not the time for gay panic. "No."  Also of note, this is the first time in my entire life that I’ve turned down a free drink. 

The guard hands Mags a shot of something. I didn't even pay attention to what he poured.

Mags knows about Evelyn and Moriarty, and I'm pretty sure my heart is about to burst right out of my chest.

"Are you sure?" he asks after a pull. "It's quite--"

"Moriarty is dead, Chuck." The words surprise me as they fly out of my mouth like those monkeys in  _ The Wizard of Oz _ . "He shot himself in his goddamn face. That's not something you just get up from and go adopt a kid and teach classes in Switzerland."

He smiles at the outburst. "Then I suppose you won't mind if I publish this article--"

"You're the businessman. You do whatever the bloody hell you want."

"A mere conversation between colleagues has you quite upset, it would seem.  Are you all right, Colonel?"

_ No, I'm not; you're threatening my _ —my what, exactly? The Professor and his weedchild are not my _anything_.

"It's not a conversation if you've got two bodyguards and all of my weapons."

"Which begs the question, why do you bring knives and guns to a meeting among friends?"

I think Mags must've been the Serpent in the Garden of Eden. He says these things so sincerely and yet so mockingly, and I almost find myself believing him.

"We're not friends, boss."

"Yes, you don't make friends with your employers, do you?"

"No."

"Which is why you won't care if I pass on this information to the general public."

I pop my neck. Fine, he wants me to show my hand, I will. I slam my hands down on the desk, leaning over it to grab Mags' tie to pull his face to mine. His guards move to protect him, but he waves them off with a chuckly. "What do you want, you slimy git?"

"Nothing, nothing, little tiger, burning bright. Let go of me, please."

"No. You cannot publish that. You can't. I'll flay you if you do."

"Oh dear, and where would you be without my financial support?"

"You're not the only one who brokers murders, Chuck."

"Mycroft Holmes would not be happy if you disposed of me."

I freeze. I don't wanna say that I'm explicitly afraid of Mycroft “The Ice Man” Holmes, but if anyone has the power to royally fuck me over, it's him. One of the scenarios I revisit from time to time is how to dispose of that bastard.

I pull Magnussen closer so that our noses almost touch. "If you hurt my little girl, if you take her daddy from her, I don't give a shit what happens to me--they will never, ever even find any evidence of your creepy little existence. Do you understand? I will rip the fingernails from you hands and hammer them into your throat. I will Colombian necktie you--"

Mags laughs again. "You know, little girls like her, there's a rather large demand for them. On film." His pale blue eyes are frozen on mine. "I'm sure she could make her way without her . . . Daddy."

And that's it. That pushes me over.  Everything goes quiet and red.

When the guards pull me off, when I finally come back to myself, Mags has blood pouring from his rapidly purpling nose, and one of the guards is jerking scissors from my hands. The scissors are covered in blood, but I don't know whose. My right eye is quickly swelling shut. The other guard is leaning against the desk, clutching his flank, his crisp white shirt slowly turning red.

"You stay the fuck away from them," I growl.

Mags pinches his nose to dam the rivulet of blood pouring from both nostrils. Even bleeding through his snothole, the bastard looks smug as hell. "I've no desire to harm your little family, Sebastian."

"Then why the fuck did you bring it up?" I demand, ready to charge again. The uninjured guard's fist to my gut keeps me in place.

"Oh several reasons," he says as though he didn't just threaten to sell my—Jim’s—sweet little Evelyn into a kiddie porn ring, as though I didn't just break his nose. "I needed to update my records, know what your pressure points are," he begins to list them off, "you've gotten very liberal with your business expenditures, and I know that Irene Adler has contacted you about heading up her security team for her upcoming move to Australia." He removes the tissue from his nose, sniffling softly. "Ah, much better. I suppose the glasses will need to be replaced." He nods towards the floor. The injured guard leans over and retrieves the shattered glasses from the carpet. Mags takes them and sets them on his desk. "Make an appointment with Dr. Olin-Kiser, Jacques." With a barely noticeable grimace, Mags resets his nose, the popping and grinding of cartilage against bone making me shudder. "Now, then, precious little tiger, I do not allow for moonlighting. Anyone you associate with can be traced back to me, and Adler is not something I want on my periphery. May I recommend avoiding whores and brothels as a whole, Sebastian? Sexual desperation is not a good look for you."

"I'm not desperate," I snap.

"I find it fascinating that a hunter of your caliber would settle for paying for sexual conquest. Perhaps you don't enjoy hunting women as much as you do animals."

"I'm not discussing my sex life with you."

"Good, it's rather boring."

"My sex life is not boring."  This fucker knows exactly how to irritate me.  I can’t believe, after working for someone like Moriarty for four years, I’m still unable to control my temper.  That it’s still so easy to get to me. I know that he’s provoking me, and I can’t stop myself from playing into his hand.

Mags' eyes runs back and forth at the thin air, as though he is reading something. "Two nights ago, missionary position, failed attempt at dirty talk, the entire encounter took a little over an hour. The next day, very tame exploration into girl-on-girl pornography, all scenes taking place on a beach."

My face burns. "Oh my God, could you not?"  Why do men like Moriarty and Magnussen enjoy spying on other people having sex?  Surely they’re both capable of getting some in real life. (I’m positive that somewhere out there, someone has a sweat kink, and Mags would be their dream come true.)

"I thought with your strict Catholic observances I might find some religious themes in your sexual preferences. I was wrong. Perhaps your perversions manifest in your kills."

My nerves tingle, warning me that something is very, very  _ off _ about my employer.  I never told him I was Catholic. "Stay the fuck away from me, Magnussen."

"Too late, sweet tiger. If you work for me, you surrender every aspect to me. My trade is in secrets. And I know all of yours."  He gives me a pointed look. Exactly how much does he know about Evelyn and Moriarty?

I crack my knuckles.  Despite my very best efforts, my right eye has swelled shut and is starting to ache like a bitch.  "So tell me what you want, Mags. This  _ James Bond  _ banter bit is ridiculous."

Both guards roll their eyes.

Mags sighs heavily. "I'm surprised young Jim hired such a thick skull. As we've discussed, I know what your pressure points are; stop spending  _ my _ money on superfluous purchases. Eating at Burger King in Turkey is not a business expense for your assassination in Niger. And you will decline the offer to work with Irene Adler.

“And, tiger,” his eyes flash, and he sees right through me, and I can’t breathe again, “your little makeshift family will want you to stay in my good graces.”

~~

I try not to think about the Professor and his weedchild. Since 2009, it's become a lot harder. It's weird, because sometimes, when I think about Evelyn, I think about my sister Carrie and her rugrats. I wonder if maybe I'm really missing out on something important by not seeing them.

These thoughts could normally be chased away with a few shots of Jameson and a visit to Anisa, but after that particular meeting with Mags, nothing keeps the anxiety and longing—Jesus, that sounds so melodramatic—at bay.

For whatever reason, Mags chose not to publish the article. Probably holding onto the information until he really needs me under his thumb. 

So, I check on "Dr. O'Neill." He moved from Switzerland as soon as he was cleared by this police and was now in the employ of a small "liberal arts college" in Galveston, Texas in the States. What the fuck a PhD statistician/master coder is going to do at a small liberal arts college, I have no idea.

Eventually (read: two weeks after the meeting with Mags), the not-knowing gets to be too much. I have to know if my current employer contacted my previous one. I have to know if Jim--Moriarty--knows of anyone else who might be aware of his "not-dead" status.

I have to see Evelyn. I have to see that Magnussen hasn't gotten to her, that she's still just my innocent little girl who has no qualms shaking the hands of an assassin.

I have to see with my own eyes that they are okay.

They aren't my family, but I inexplicably feel a little obligated to protect them.

I steal a phone from some drunk on the tube, and I call the college and enter Dr. O'Neill's extension. (Poor bloke's bill is going to be painful; take note, fellow Londoners, do not pass out on the tube. Someone may use your mobile to place international calls.)

It's 20:00 in my portion of the world, meaning it’s 15:00 in his. He might still be at work, I reason.

My stomach is in knots as the phone rings once. My leg starts to bounce impatiently. Another ring. My free hand fidgets, popping my knuckles. Another ring.

"Hi," the familiar falsely cheerful voice chirps.

"Jim, it’s Bash—"

"You've reached the voicemail of Dr. O'Neill. Unfortunately, I'm not in the office, but you can definitely send me an email, which I will check every other day over the course of the summer. My summer office hours are Monday and Tuesday, 8:00 a.m. through 12:30 p.m. If I don't see you over the summer, I'll see you when classes resume in September! Feel free to leave a message."  _ Beep _ !

"Fuck," I hiss and hang up.

~~

_ August 2012 | Basher’s POV _

_ pop! pop! _

Two shots blaze past my left shoulder.

"What the fuck?!" I shout into the darkness.

The lights flicker on, revealing my ex-employer in nothing but his pants, holding a Kahr CW9. "What the hell are you doing?!"  A reasonable question to ask an intruder at three in the morning.

"What the hell are  _ you _ doing?!" I shout back. "Holy God, Prof, you're a terrible shot." I move to inspect the bullet holes in the wall, both a good arms length away from me. It makes me feel sick. He won't be able to protect Evelyn if push comes to shove. I've gotta get him to a shooting range. I can't imagine that'll be difficult to find in Texas.

Exasperation is painted on his face.  "It was  _ fucking  _ dark. Why  _ the hell _ are you in my house?"

"Daddy!" comes a shout from upstairs. "Daddy!"  Relief washes over me at the sound of Evelyn’s voice, perky and happy and alive.  It’s shameful.

"Everything's fine, sweetheart," he answers. "Go back to sleep."

"I wanted to make sure you guys are okay."

"So you break into my house at 3:00 in the morning?!"

"Why didn't you answer my goddamn email?!"

He rolls his eyes. "When did you send it?!"

"Yesterday!"

"I only check my work email every other day in the summer, you maniac!"

I shake my head at the evidence of his poor aim. "Jim, you've gotta get some firearms training."

He hurls the gun at me, knocking me in the chest. The thing's so light, I'm surprised it doesn’t just flutter to the ground like a feather. "I was a good enough shot to get the permit," he pouts.

I burst into laughter. "You got a goddamn permit?"

He glares.  It’s not a far-cry from the Moriarty death glare, but life in the suburbs has softened his features.

"Seriously? What the fuck, you used to trade weapons illegally. Now you get fucking permits."

"Stop swearing! It's not a habit I want Evelyn to pick up."

I can't help but smile. Jim is a good dad, I think. "Can I go see her?"

"No!"

"Why the fuck not?"

"As a general rule, I don't let those breaking into my house in the middle of the night go and visit my daughter!"

"Prof--"

" _ Addison _ ."

" _ Jim _ , come on. I came here because I wanted to make sure you both were okay."

He tilts his head, the cold-blooded veneer of Moriarty resurfacing. "Why wouldn't we be?" he asks, his voice lacking any sarcasm. "What do you know?"

I take a deep breath. "I think Mags knows."

Jim's face remains stoic. He nods slowly.

"He's not going to do anything, at least not right now.  He had an article he was going to publish about the abduction in Bern,” here, his face pales, and his shoulders tense, “but his personal assistant told me that it was off the table for now. He said he just needed to know what my pressure point was. And he didn't want me to work for Adler."

Jim’s lips twitch as he processes this information.  "The kids that took Evelyn..." he says slowly. "They must've sold the information to someone for Magnussen to get his hands on it.”

"Kids?"

"They were students of mine in Bern. I made a miscalculation in teaching them some code. They got into some banking information that they shouldn't have. It was purely by chance. With that information, they somehow figured out who I was and decided to blackmail me." He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. "I don't know how they would've passed the information on to Magnussen, though.  He's not going to take unverified information from a bunch of uni students."

"But you haven't had any reason to suspect someone else knows?"

He nods his head and chews on his bottom lip.  “The middleman.  Or middlewoman.” I’m shit at reading Moriarty’s secondary emotions, but I think he may be worried?

“Who might that be, though?”

Moriarty starts to retreat into his head.  I can practically hear his thoughts whizzing by.  "It doesn't make sense why Eurus would orchestrate a kidnapping though.  Sherlock's dead.  She has no motivation.  Or means."

I have no idea who Eurus is, but there's quite a few of Moriarty's associates that I was never on a first name basis with, and as I've said before, you only get so many questions with the professor.  "Who is Eurus?"

"A prisoner at Sherrinford."

Having served in the British Army for seven years, and having risen to the rank of Colonel at a fairly young age, I knew what Sherrinford was; where Mycroft Holmes stashed all the baddies who were too interesting to put down.  No one could get so much as a letter to Santa out of there, much less be able to orchestrate a kidnapping.   "It's probably just Mags, then," I offer. I don't know why, but I have this urge to comfort him. It’s unnerving, seeing him concerned about his little girl.  Probably because I’m worried too.

"Charles doesn't find information first hand--it's all passed on to him. He had to get it from somewhere."

"Daddy!" comes the voice from upstairs again. "Daddy!" The pitter-patter of feet coming down the steps makes me smile like an idiot. "Whass goin on?"

She looks at me, and it takes her a moment but she recognizes me. "Tiger! Papa Tiger!" She doesn't run over to me, though, and I'm ashamed to say that I'm mildly upset about that.

Jim must see this. "She's going through a shy phase. Likely because of the event and the move. But also because it's common for her age. Evelyn, sweetheart, don't you wanna give Basher a hug?"

She thinks it over. She comes over to him, bashful, reaching for his hand. "Come wif me?" she asks in a loud whisper.

He smiles sweetly at her. "Come on, precious." He lifts her up, balancing her on his hip, and carries her over to me.

"Hey Evelyn," I say softly as she reaches out for me. She gives me a very short one-armed hug, then buries her head in her Daddy's shoulder, giggling.

Jim giggles too. "Are you a shy little girl?" he teases.

"No," she answers, the smile evident in her voice.

"I think you are."

"Nooo," she says with more conviction.

"You ready to go back to bed?"

"No."

There's a knock on the door. I freeze and Jim freezes, clutching Evelyn to him tightly. "Here," he says, handing her off to me. It takes some effort to pry her fingers off his shoulders. "Hold her."

"Um, don't answer the door in your pants," I hiss at him.

He waves me off and checks the window. He groans. "Oh my God, it's the Baptist Lesbians."

"What?"

"Ugh, just make them go away. Come on, Evey, let's go night-night."

"Lesbian Baptists?"

"They’re just neighbors.  Answer the door," he says, taking the little girl from me and heading back upstairs. 

"You're not my boss anymore!" Nonetheless, I answer the door.

Two women in their mid-thirties stare back at me. "Is everything okay? We heard gunshots."

"Who are you?" the other one asks.

"Oh, I'm, er, I'm Addison's friend."

The two exchange a knowing glance. "Is he all right? Can we do anything?"

"Don't the two of you have your own children to mind?!" Jim shouts from upstairs.

"He's--he's just grumpy," I tell them. "Don't--don't take it, you know, personally."

"Oh, we know. We know. Bless him."

"I'm Elliott," I say, offering my hand, remembering my assigned name from the Swiss Event.

"Oh!  It’s so nice to finally meet you!  I'm Susan," one of them answers, shaking my hand. "And this is  _ my _ wife Amber."

"Oh, I...I didn't know that was, like, a thing in Texas."

"Oh, we were married in Massachusetts."

"Oh." I guess that means something? I have no idea. "Well, er, goodnight."

"Addi," Amber calls over my shoulder, "Addi, are you sure you're all right?"

"For the love of God, go home!" Jim shouts back.

Oh my God, why is Jim so rude to these women? They seem so nice.

Susan shakes her head. "It's the PTSD, isn't it?" she asks me.

I try not to snort. What the hell are they even talking about? "Yep, that's it exactly."

"Well, we're glad you're back from overseas."

_ Oh my fucking God. _

"Honestly, though, and I'm sorry if this sounds racist, I always expected you to be black."

_ OH MY GOD. _

"Yeah, that's, er, that's what my mum said," I joke. "So, um, it's nice to meet you both, so I'm going to bed. Good night."

I shut the door before the conversation can go any further.  

~~

_Jim’s POV_  
  
I can hear him, pacing and searching downstairs. He’s trying to be quiet, but he’s so damnedably heavy, there’s only so much the hardwood floors can take before they squeak, the lush.  
  
I can’t sleep with him opening and closing all the cabinets and the door to the pantry. _Basher, you’re a fucking idiot, you’ve already checked there twice._ _There wasn’t any alcohol in the cabinet the first time, there wasn’t any the second time, even after you spilt rice all over my nice, clean floor, and there certainly won’t be any this third time round._  
  
It’s annoying. He’s annoying. Flying half way across the world to “protect” us.  
  
To make sure we’re okay.  
  
The panic in his eyes was so . . . so something.  
  
Who the hell does he think he is? Breaking into my house at some unholy hour? To make sure Evelyn’s safe? Looking disheveled and concerned?  
  
Like we meant something to him?  
  
My stomach flips.

I shouldn't be thinking about the idiotic mass of muscle pacing in my kitchen.  I should be focused on if Eurus knows where I am, if she's been in touch with Charles regarding my whereabouts.  If she's willing to sell me out to her brother in exchange for time on Twitter.  Ugh, sore loser.  I won fair and square.   
  
_ There’s still not any alcohol in the pantry, tiger. There are no alcohol fairies. This isn’t  _ Harry Potter _.  _

It would do him some him good to get to sleep without the aid of depressants.   
  
I think he’s settled. I don’t hear him anymore.   
  
And then I hear his footsteps, heavy and loud and intrusive, just like the rest of him, carrying the bulk of him up the stairs. The hall light flicks on and the bastard is opening my door.   
  
“Could you--” I start to berate him, but suddenly he’s beside me, crawling beneath my sheets, and my mouth is dry. I reach up to stop him as he leans in closer, and his shirt is gone. My palms and fingers are resting on those deliciously tight pecs, hot and firm and scarred.   
  
“Maybe you can offer something else to help me sleep?” he grumbles into my ear before pinning my wrists to the headboard.   
  
“Fuck,” the whispered profanity echoes from the kitchen, and I realize I’ve been dozing. I echo his sentiment, because it was turning into a very nice dream. It’s been a while. A very long while. And having a big, masculine beast of a man interrupt my sleeping patterns, acting as a protector—well, I suppose it’s only natural it would awaken those sexual urges.   
  
I need to sleep though. I grab my phone and text him that there is no alcohol in the house, to stop looking. If he really needs something to help him sleep, he can make some of the bedtime tea in the pantry.   
  
I hear him curse again. He pads back into the living room and flops onto the sofa.   
  
“Make yourself at home, colonel,” I whisper into the darkness.   
  
I roll over onto my side, flipping the pillow to the cool side. I need to sleep, but I don’t want to sleep. I want to explore that dream. I want to finish it. Fuck, it doesn’t have to be Basher. It could be anyone, really. And that’s completely, one-hundred percent true. Maybe?   
  
It would be nice if it were Basher, eh?   
  
Those lean fingers and rough palms. When I shook his hand that day in London, I was amazed at how unkempt his hands were. Calloused palms and fingertips, uneven nails clipped too short and a firm grip. He’s just the stereotypical heterosexual man, smelling of cheap hotel shampoo and some sporty body wash. He doesn’t do anything to his hair, just keeps it short so he doesn’t have to think about it. He has gorgeous arms, and if he’d wear a shirt that fit correctly, they’d look even better.   
  
And Evelyn loves him. And he loves her.   
  
I don’t understand the root of these feelings, but whenever someone cares about my daughter, I almost instantaneously don’t want to kill them. Even the annoying Lesbians are partially immune to my wrath because they love Evelyn and vice versa.   
  
I can almost imagine the weight of his muscled body pressing me into the mattress, that wide mouth nipping and sucking at my lips, demanding more. That thick cock penetrating me with no preparation, ripping me apart, making me bleed and scream, even as the head hits my prostate.   
  
_ “This will do just fine,” imaginary Basher growls. “No, no, Boss.” He stops me from groping my cock, pinning my wrists to the headboard again. “You come from my cock or not at all.” _ __   
  
In reality, of course, I’m sliding my fist up and down my erection. I never know when Evelyn might crawl in bed with me, so I have no intention of climaxing, but there’s no reason not to enjoy this.   
  
_ “You’ll have to keep quiet, won’t you, Boss? God, you feel amazing, just squirming on my cock, like you have a chance of escaping.” His rough hands grip my neck and squeeze. “Sh, sh, this will help you keep quiet. Especially as I go even deeper.” He bucks deeper inside, shredding the sensitive internal tissue so that it’s difficult to separate the pain of suffocation from the pain of being split open. I’m just one mass of existence, unable to think of anything else except what’s happening to me. _ __   
  
In reality, I can hear myself whimper. I cover my head with the pillow and bite my lip to keep further sounds from reaching the other two sleeping humans in my house.   
  
_ “Easy, boss, easy,” Imaginary Basher breathes against my cheek, lapping at the tears that come from suffocation. “I’m keeping you safe, no charge, checking up on you for free. I think I should get a little something in return, don’t you? A little something to help me relax?” _ __   
__   
_ And he hits that sweet bundle of nerves over and over again, causing precum to drip from my cock. I cry out but it’s just a hoarse groan that makes my throat burn as he tightens his grip on my airway. Oh my God, this is good, this is what I need. Bite me, tiger, mark me, ruin me. . . _ __   
  
No, that’s enough. That’s enough fantasy for tonight. I don’t want to dirty the linens just because I can’t keep my libido at bay.   
  
I take a deep breath, hold it, then release it slowly. Again. I’ll deal with this tomorrow. I’ll go out and find a proper fuck, none of this masturbating like a teenager at four in the morning nonsense. No weird, icky emotions tied to the physical act of fucking.   
  
And Basher being here is definitely weird and icky.   
  
He doesn’t even work for me anymore.   
  
“I wanted to make sure you both were okay,” he’d said. So he flies halfway around the world, going without sleep for twenty-six hours? Because he’s _worried_ about us?   
  
Oh dear me, am I feeling a bit warm and snuggly about his presence? Tsk, tsk, I should know better.  Besides, he’s checking on Evelyn, not me.   
__   
_ A big, bad tiger coming to check on his cub. _ __   
  
Goddamnit all, why is  __ that arousing? My erection isn’t going away. Shit. I guess I’ll just have to get out of bed and deal with this like an ordinary person.


	15. Growth, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can see _The Heart of Lioness_ documentary [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WYKDfnPHYck)

_ Next Day | Basher’s POV _

You know that feeling when you wake up, but you haven’t quite opened your eyes yet, and it registers that something’s not right? Maybe not necessarily dangerous, just something is . . . off.

That’s how I feel right now. I can see the sunlight bursting into the living room through my tightly closed eyelids, and I’m slowly becoming aware of my body. I’m not in danger, so my brain is taking its sweet time to wake up. Maybe it’s jet lag or maybe it’s just recovering from the gnawing anxiety of the last two days, but I feel hungover.

I know I’m not, though, because The Professor doesn’t keep anything stronger than cooking sherry in the house. What sort of an Irishman only keeps cooking wine in the house, I ask you? 

_ Tap, tap, tap _

Sensation is playing across my hand, vaguely reminding me of the wind. I blink a few times, trying to adjust to the light. A full head of natural hair is bobbing beside me on the floor next to the couch.

_ Tap, tap, tap _

Well, Evelyn’s still alive. No one took her in the middle of the night.  “What’re you doing, love?” I croak.

“Counting.”

Oh. She’s tapping my fingers. She’s counting them.

I feel slightly sick. She only has nine fingers. I have ten. Briefly, I consider chopping off one of my own just to make her feel at ease.

“Why’re you counting them?”

“Cause I love you.”

I melt. “Oh. Huh.”

I wonder if it’s a habit she’s picked up from Jim. I don’t know if it’s an OCD thing or a control thing or just a tic, but Jim likes to count things. He likes to tap things as he passes them, but only when he’s in a controlled environment. Obviously, he can’t just go around touching everything; his prints would be everywhere.

I think back to him tapping her fingers at the hospital. I think back to her counting at the pool, shoving her fingers in my face. I think back to what Carrie told me about her first child in her last letter to me while I was deployed.  _ She has ten fingers and ten toes and two eyes and a nose, and while most everyone else on Earth has these things as well, hers are the most perfect, the most miraculous. _

I wonder if Jim feels the same, if he’s always felt like that with his daughter.

_ Tap, tap, tap _

“Knock it off.” There’s no real command in my voice. She just leans up to grin mischievously in my face.

“No!”

“Like that word, do you?”

“No.”

Oh my God, kids are so goddamn annoying.

“Moran,” Jim’s voice emanates from the kitchen. “Come set the table.”

I snort.  Who the fuck does he think he’s kidding?  I haven’t set a table since Mother’s Day, 1994.  “Um, hell no.”

He appears in the threshold between the kitchen and the living room. “Excuse me?”

“I came to make sure you hadn’t fucked up again; I didn’t fly twelve hours here to set your table.”

His eyes flash at the obscenities.  “Go set the table, now,” he orders, his voice low and soft. He’s trying to be Moriarty again.  I can almost see the Consulting Criminal in Jim’s face, like he’s been possessed. The pools of depravity that always rest just behind his eyes suddenly spill out to the entirety of his face. A shiver runs down my spine.

I yawn, just to piss him off. “Evelyn, go set the table,” I say, motioning for her to get away.

“No,” she says, genuinely disgusted.

“I didn’t ask Evelyn to do it,” he says through gritted teeth. “I asked you to do it.”

“And I declined.” I don’t know why I’m pushing, but for some reason, I want to make him angry.  Maybe so he’ll think I’m not afraid of him. After all, I am bigger and stronger. (So was his last Chief of Staff, and I know in vivid detail what happened to him.  Jim’s a vicious little prick.) 

Nonetheless, I crane my head up to meet his gaze, daring him to slice me to pieces the way he’d done other previous employees.

There’s something eerie in his eyes. His face has melted into placidity. It’s the face he used to give me when it was time for a messy ending to a business meeting. The thought crosses my mind that maybe he’s got a sniper on standby.

I force a light-hearted chuckle. I’m not gonna be shot to death on a sofa in Texas unless it’s in a whorehouse. “All right, all right. I’m up.”

Breakfast in the O'Neill/Moriarty household is a really domestic ordeal. Jim cuts up her eggies (which are fried, not scrambled) in small bites, and they talk about what they’ll do for the day (clean up, brush teeth, go to the park, et cetera). It’s bizarre to think that this is the life that the Consulting Criminal, the Professor of the Underground, is living. If it weren’t so fascinating, it would be boring as hell. It reminds me of this documentary I saw on a lioness who kept adopting baby antelopes.  Of course, the baby antelopes kept dying because they’d been taken away from their mums, and the lioness wasn’t equipped to care for them.

Jim tells the kid to go brush her teeth, and when she disappears upstairs, he says, “I need you to play babysitter tonight.”

My immediate instinct isn’t to say no, and that fills me with self-loathing. “Um, I was gonna catch a flight back home. Poker tournament at the club,” I lie.

“You broke into my house.  I think you owe it to me to mind my daughter.”

“Why? What are you doing that you can’t take her?”

He rolls his eyes. “If you must know, I’m hoping to get laid tonight.” Zero shame, all annoyance that I’m putting up a fight.

“So? Just bring him here.”

“No,” he snaps back. “I don’t want Evelyn to think it’s okay to just bring some strange man home.”

“I mean, she probably will one day.”

He glares. “She might be a lesbian.”

“Statistically not.”

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Who usually watches her when you go out on the prowl or whatever?”

“No one.”

“You leave her alone?”

“Jesus, no, Basher. I just . . . don’t.”

Silence.

“Like, at all?”

He sighs, exasperated, and gets up to clear the table.

“Like, since that time you dropped her off at my flat?”

“Moran, this is really none of your business.  Just watch Evelyn for the evening. You’re already here, and you’re obviously pleased to see her.”

“How can you just not have sex for two years?”

“Sebastian Moran,” he says softly, “let me be clear; we are not friends. My daughter loves you, and I trust you with her, but do not think for a moment that our relationship allows for ‘bloke talk.’ Do you understand?”

And now the little shit has succeeded in pissing me off. “I just flew over the Atlantic to make sure you were okay, and you’re gonna tell me we’re just former business associates?” I scoff. Who the hell does he think he’s kidding?

“You flew here for Evelyn.”

“Yeah, but Evelyn loves you, so by extension you’re under that umbrella. . . of . . .” Of what? What the hell am I apart of? What is this?

While I try to unravel the nature of my relationship with the two, he flashes that Moriarty grin. “Sentiment is a dangerous trait found in idiots, Bash. I’d mind my steps if I were you.”

~~

I’m ashamed at how excited I am that I’ll be watching Evelyn again. I have fond memories of playing house with her while her father was being tortured by government agents. I mean, I have a lot of disgusting memories as well, but I can enjoy being babysitter because this will only be one night. Probably not even the full night. I don’t know a lot about Moriarty’s sexual habits, and I don’t particularly care to (except maybe how he can manage two years sans sex), but he doesn’t seem like the sort to stay for a cuddle.

Currently, her five-inch Batman action figure is marrying her foot-long Barbie doll. She shoves the Batman toy into my hand and fetches a giant plastic alligator, roaring. “Be scared!” she squeals in delight, shoving the reptile at the super hero. Jim, having just groomed himself for a fuck, comes out of the wc, grey hairs gone, dressed in a sweater vest, khakis, and nerdy, hipster glasses.

That juvenile impulse to beat him up resurfaces.

He swoops the little girl up in his arms, much to her chagrin, and she whines in protest. “Oh, sorry, love, did I interrupt?” Jim asks.

“Yes!” she answers, giving him a dark look. I’ll be damned if it’s not the same dark look that the Professor gave when he was unhappy.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry. I just wanted to give you a kiss goodbye.”

She rolls her eyes--just like him--and sighs heavily. “Okay,” she concedes. Her mood clears up like clouds blown away by a sudden gust of wind; she smiles brightly and wraps her arms tight around his neck before kissing his cheek. “Bye bye!”

“I love you.” He presses a kiss to her forehead.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“Are you going to behave for Tiger?”

She nods.

“Promise?”

She grins mischievously, then shrugs.

He smirks at me. “You have to be good for him, just like for Ms Susan and Ms Amber, right?”

She nods again, impatient. “Daddy,” she says, “I’m playing wedding.”

He kisses her temple, giving her one last squeeze before setting her back down in the floor. “Okay, okay, I’m leaving. I love you, Evelyn.”

Didn’t he do this already?

“Be a good girl.”

“Quit stallin’, Jim,” I bark. “She’s gonna be fine, okay?”

“Yeah, Jim!” Evelyn shouts back.

“Hey,” I bop the back of her head, “don’t call your daddy Jim.”

“Don’t hit my child!”

“Oh my God, Jim! Go!” I rush him, shoving him towards the door. “All the boys are gonna be taken before you even get out there!”

“Men,” he corrects.

“Not looking like that, Prof,” I say before forcing him out the door. “Bye.” I slam the door.

Evelyn stares at the door. I freeze. Her eyes focus on my face. Is she going to start screaming? Oh my God, please, please, child, don’t start screaming.

“Daddy goed?”

“Yup.”

“Where?”

Well, I have no idea how to answer that. I don’t want her to think her daddy left her to go somewhere fun. What would be boring to a three-year-old? “Um, church.”

Evelyn frowns. “With Ms Susan and Ms Amber?”

I blink. “Yes.”

She collapses to the ground, crying. “I wanna go!”

“No. No. You don’t want to go to church. It’s really long and boring.”

She looks up at me, tears flowing freely. I don’t know how she’s even had time to produce that many tears. “Nooooo! I don’ care!”

“Hey, hey, shush, listen.” She does. Wow, we’ve made progress since she was a year old. “Let’s, er, let’s _ play _ church? How’s that?  That’s even better, isn’t it?”

~~

_ Jim's POV _

He doesn’t look like Basher, which I should probably consider a plus. I don’t need  _ another _ emotional attachment clogging up my neuropathways.  One is already too much. And even if I did form a second unnecessary connection to someone, it certainly doesn’t need to be to an ex-employee.   
  
He’s got the broad shoulders though, and the thick arms. He’s not as lean as Basher, though.  His thighs aren’t as thick. I need to stop comparing him to Basher.   
  
I can’t even remember his name. He’s dull. So dull. It’s hard to focus on the fact that I can’t breathe when he won’t fucking shut the hell up.   
  
“That’s it, baby boy,” he murmurs above me, “take it all. Choke on my dick.”   
  
_ Hah.   _ Like it’s big enough.   
  
I guide his hands to my hair, hoping he’ll get the hint. Instead, he pets me scalp like I’m a dog. Oh my god, this is hell.   
  
Focus on the suffocation. Focus on that cock intruding on your throat.   
  
That absolutely pathetic cock this idiot keeps trying to choke me with while he pets me like a fucking animal. What a waste of a night out.   
  
“Show Daddy how much you like it,” he groans above me, hips thrusting at a comically erratic rate. It takes every single ounce of self-control I have not to bite his dick off.   
  
This is. . .   
  
This is not what I want.   
__   
_ FUCK. _   
  
_ And imaginary Basher grabs my hair and tugs it back, hard and fast and demanding, pulling me off of his long, thick cock. I look up at him, taking in the image of him, tall and bulky and somehow lean, his wet cock shimmering in the dim lights of the alleyway, parting the opening of his jeans. _ __   
__   
_ Towering over me like a proper predator. _   
  
Oh, this is much, much better.   
  
_ Bitchslap me. Pin me to the cement with your foot on my face. Slice open my skin with the broken bottles that surround us. Burn me. Punch me. Choke me. Make me feel something, Basher. Anything. _ __   
__   
_ Imaginary Basher grins viciously, exposing what seems like too many teeth. Those fists, strong from the years of carrying oversized firearms, grip my neck. “Relax, Jim.” He squeezes tighter so that it feels like my head will explode. Yes, yes, this is what I needed. _ __   
_   
_ __ “I’m going to destroy you, pretty boy. You’re gonna go up in flames like the fucking Roman Empire.”

~~

_ Basher’s POV _

It’s really obvious that Evelyn’s never been to church. I don’t really know what a Baptist service looks like, so we play Mass. The alligator is wearing a black handkerchief and a piece of tinfoil around his neck. There’s not a Bible in the house, so for the scripture reading, Father Alligator reads from _The Cat in the Hat_ , and I try really hard not to be offended when Evelyn follows every rhyme with “Amen.”

Mass quickly devolves into chaos when one of the Pixar plushies falls onto Father Alligator and Evelyn declares a state of emergency. Apparently, what that entails is a pretend trip to the ice cream shop before heading to the emergency department.  I imagine her Daddy also prioritizes sweets over healthcare.

In the dark blue of the Texas evening, still blazing hot, Evelyn drives around the backyard in a green battery-operated child’s Jeep, the Mass attendees falling out of the sides as she speeds around like a bat out of hell. I chase her around the yard for a long while, and then she. . . just emotionally crashes, I guess.

It starts when she sees headlights, and she thinks it’s Jim. “Daddy!” she calls. The headlights turn into another driveway, prompting the start of tears.

Checking the time, I realize I probably should’ve been had her in bed about an hour or so ago. Jim had warned me about her routine, how important it was to stick to it. When she’s tired, she gets anxious. And I suppose that makes sense, considering she was abandoned as a baby, her daddy was kidnapped for two months, and then she was kidnapped and mutilated.

I just wanted some time with her, if I’m completely honest. I don’t know why. She’s not mine. She’s not particularly interesting. She just . . . really is perfect, I guess. I mean, she’s not, she’s whiny and demanding and drives like a maniac, but she’s . . . authentic. No doubletalk. I know where I stand with her because she has no reason to lie to me. It doesn’t matter to her that her daddy has had hundreds of people killed, has tricked thousands out of millions, has had his hands in the slave trade--none of that impacts her love for him and the reverse is true.

It doesn’t matter that I’ve got scars on my face, that my hands are rough, that I’ve strangled the life out of people at the behest of someone else. It doesn’t matter that I kill for a living, that I gamble, that I fuck anything with a cunt.

To her, we’re protectors. We’re caregivers. She loves us. She loves Jim.  And that settles something deep in my gut, satisfies something inherent in my psyche.  

To my dismay, I truly enjoy just spending time with her, even though she has absolutely nothing to offer me.

She calms down a little after a lavender-scented bubble bath, but she refuses to go to bed until her Daddy gets home, and I don’t have the heart to make her. We settle on the sofa, and she climbs onto my lap and snuggles against my chest, sniffling quietly.

“Your dad’s coming back, I promise,” I tell her, hugging her snug against me, nuzzling my check against her freshly oiled curls.

She nods. “I wanna watch  _ Dragons _ .” She rubs her eyes, evidence of her sleepiness.

After I struggle with the remote for a while, she puts it on by herself (and for whatever reason, I’m just so damn proud of her independence and competency), then snuggles against me again.  _ My sweet little girl _ . She’s asleep before the opening credits are over.

I can’t help but watch her. I watch her breath come in and out, feel it against my neck, and it’s such a calming moment. She’s alive, she’s settled, she’s perfect. She trusts me.

I’m overwhelmed at the sense of non-sexual intimacy of the moment. The feeling of her tiny body resting against mine, because she trusts me, because she needs me, because I’m a comfort to her, is simultaneously the most empowering and terrifying feeling in the entire world.

Look, I’ve played God. I may have been working for Moriarty and Magnussen, but that’s always been  _ my _ choice. I’ve been the brawn, choosing to follow their requests.  _ I’ve _ decided who lived and who died.  _ I’ve _ redesigned the human body with bombs and blades.  _ I’ve _ breathed life back into my soldiers.  _ I’ve _ been powerful.  _ I’ve _ been omniscient.

And none of that compares to this feeling right now. I’m completely subject to her. I’ll do literally anything for her. And yet, I’m in charge. I physically and authoritatively can determine what happens to her. I’m trapped in this crazy power exchange, except there’s no power.

I love her.  

I’m simultaneously horrified and at peace with myself.

The sound of a vehicle pulling into the driveway makes my blood run cold.

I need to move her. I can’t be caught snuggling with his weed  _ precious little angel _ child. But I also can’t bring myself to bloody move her. She should be in bed. But she’s so . . . Evelyn right here in my arms. Oh my God, what do I do?

Keys rattle against the door, and the soft snap tells me that the lock’s been undone.

I start to slide out from underneath her, but she makes this soft sound, and I just can’t. I can’t move her. She’s sleeping. And she’s perfect.  And I love her.

_ God fucking dammit. _

The door opens. I shut my eyes and lay my head back, pretending to be asleep.

Jim’s footsteps sound their way into the living room. I’m holding my breath. He sighs, irritated that the television’s on. I realize Netflix has rolled over into another movie that I don’t recognize. I wasn’t even paying attention. How long have I been sitting here watching a child sleep? How pathetic is that?

I feel his eyes bearing down on me. I imagine his arms are crossed.

“Hey,” he whispers gently. “Evey, precious, let’s go night-night?”

“Shush,” she whispers back, but much, much louder. “Tiger Papa is sleeping.”

Oh God, my heart.

“Come on, let’s let him sleep, okay?”

I feel him reach down to retrieve her from my chest. It’s all I can do not to grip her tightly, pull her back.

The telly is turned off, then the lights, and finally I hear Jim kiss Evelyn good-night, then close the door to his own room upstairs.

I open my eyes to the darkness. I feel cold. And maybe a little bit sad.

~~

_ Jim’s POV _

I think I got it out of my system. My mind’s buzzing about half as much as usual, so I’ve probably quieted my libido for a bit. After my adventure with Not Basher in the alleyway, I found an actual Dom to handle me.   
  
My wrists ache pleasantly and the welts on my back are screeching against the scratchy material of my shirt. I open the door to  _ my _ house, and, for fuck’s sake, I can smell him. The den smells like him, like his sleep and his breath and his coffee. It’s faint; there’s a possibility that I’m imagining it.   
  
Basher needs to leave.   
  
I approach the sofa where he and Evelyn are cuddled up, sleeping. A strange, warm feeling rises up over me, like someone wrapping a thick, fleece blanket around my shoulders. For a moment, it suffocates me.   
  
Evelyn's eyes pop open, and she looks up at me with a mischievous grin. I cross my arms and fire a matching grin back at her. My precious little lady. She sticks her tongue out at me and crosses her eyes, doing her best not to giggle.   
  
“Hey,” I whisper, “Evey, baby, let’s go night-night?”   
  
“Shush,” she practically shouts back. “Tiga Papa is sleeping.”   
  
Basher doesn’t even stir. I’m glad. I don’t think I can appropriately process his consciousness right now. Not after he’s plagued my evening out.


	16. Proto-Radius

_September 2012 | Basher's POV_

I have a layover in Galveston. Should anyone ever suggest I planned my layover to fall in Galveston, I’ll deny it, but denial doesn’t mean it’s not true.

Dr O'Neill’s class is letting out when I arrive. He’s chatting with a young female student, who is very clearly in love with him. He’s tapping on his thigh impatiently, trying his hardest not to let Moriarty slip into the interaction. I wait until he sees me and promptly uses my presence as an interruption. “Oh! Elliott, _darling_!” he says, trying not to sound desperate. “I wasn’t expecting you until after my Physics class.”

I grin, using the opportunity to slide between him and the student. With some hesitation, I lean over to kiss his cheek. “Got off early; thought I’d come see you.” I watch the girl’s face fall with a sadistic sort of pleasure.  (Women, by the way, love to play the “turn him straight” bit. I’ve never played that hand, but I knew blokes in the service who did. Perhaps I should give it a shot.)

Jim’s face is surprisingly pink when I step back from him. His shoulders are tense. _Haha_ , I think. _So much for being just business associates_.

I turn my attention to the girl, feeling somewhat predatory. She’s a nerdy little thing, cute in a Molly Ringwald sort of way. Not really my type, but I wouldn’t kick her out of bed if she randomly showed up there. I thrust my hand in her direction. “Elliott O'Neill.”

Her eyes widen.

Jim snaps out of his blushy trance. “Elliott, this is one of my students, Sarah--”

“Rachel,” she corrects.

For a split second, I think Moriarty is going to surface and claw the little girl’s eyes out. I see the rage flash across his face, and then, like lightning, it’s vanished. “Rachel.”

“Nice to meet you, Rachel. Listen, you mind if I borrow the professor?”

She mumbles her consent, then leaves, heartbroken.

Jim shoves me back into the classroom, slamming the door behind us. “Fuck! I fucking hate them! All of them! And especially that little twat. She’s a drama major for God’s sake!” he rants. “She’s terrible at math! TERRIBLE, BASHER. And I have to teach basic maths to these morons! I only get one advanced class this semester!”

“Sounds rough,” I say dryly. “I really don’t care.”

He leans back against his desk.  He scrubs his face, as if he can simply scrub away his irritation.  “Why are you here?”

“Shooting range.”

“What?”  His black eyes peer up at me with disdain.

“You’re a terrible shot. You need some practice.”

He deadpans. “I have a class in three hours.”

“Give me an hour.”

He studies me, leaning back against his desk. He tilts his head. “Why are you in the States?”

“Flying to Canada. Had a layover from Brazil.”

“You stopped here on purpose.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Why wouldn’t the layover have been in Atlanta?”

“Oh my God,” I concede. “Yes, I stopped here on purpose. I just keep thinking some thug’s gonna break into your house, and you’re gonna get yourself killed because you shoot like Ray Charles.”

His eyes narrow.  His head tilts. “Does Charles know you’re here?”

I shrug. “Probably. I don’t know.”

“Has he said anything about us? And by us, I mean Evelyn and myself; not you and me,” he clarifies.

I chuckle. “Feeling a little uneasy about _our_ relationship?” I take a step closer. “I thought we were just business associates.”

I know he’s gonna hit me, and I don’t bother moving.  For whatever reason, annoying him is surprisingly satisfying. Maybe it’s payback for all his insults I endured while working for him.  Regardless, his fist slams into my gut. It’s not too bad. I laugh through the pain. “See, that’s why you’ve gotta improve your aim. You’re not gonna deter anyone with a hit like that.”

He squints his eyes. “I’ll cut you,” he hisses.

“C’mon, _Addison_ ,” I say solemnly. “I worry. Seriously. If something happens to you, something might happen to Evelyn. Gimme an hour, I’ll give you a crash course in proper gunmanship.”

He mulls it over, checking his watch. He sighs. “Fine.”

~~

Jim is ridiculously flirtatious at the range. I don’t know if it has to do with being around guns or if he’s just purposely annoying all the assumedly conservative heterosexual males. Of course, he also flirts with the female off-duty copper behind us in the rental line, so maybe it’s just the smell of gun powder that riles him.

“You’re in a good mood,” I note as we come to our assigned lane. He shrugs it off, staring at the rental weapon. “Excited?”

He smirks. “Bit.”

“All right. Let’s see you fire off a shot.”

He giggles like a boy, then takes the worse stance I’ve ever seen and fires, completely missing the paper target. His shoulders sag a little at the failure.

“You’re locking your elbows, and you’re holding it too low.”

He pouts.  “What? That’s what the instructor told me to do.”

“Instructor?” I cannot believe _The Professor_ went to an instructor to learn how to fucking shoot someone.

“Shut up.”

“Locking works for some people, keeps them still, but it doesn’t for you. It hitches your aim to the right.”

He sighs and assumes the isosceles stance.  I can’t specifically tell you why that’s an ineffective stance for Jim, but I can just tell that it is.  “Hold on,” I tell him. “Let’s try the fighter stance. Your center of gravity is too high for that to be effective. You’re trying to balance and aim.”

After positioning himself based on my instructions, he fires another round. It’s closer this time but only barely nicks the target. He growls.

“Okay, stop.  Hold still for a second.” I step behind him. “Higher.” I lightly push his elbows upward so that they’re in line with his shoulders. He tenses. “No, just stop, relax. Slight bend in the elbow.” I step closer. I don’t know why. I don’t need to. I think, maybe, I just want him to be the one on guard, to be on the receiving end of unwanted advances. You know, since he’s feeling so flirty. I reach for his wrists, guiding his grip.

“Is this necessary, Tiger?” he purrs. He leans his body backwards playfully so that his head is resting on my shoulder. He bats his eyes.

I smirk. Strange that I’m not put off by his flirtation.  “If you think you’re gonna make me uncomfortable, remember you shot at me twice in nothing but your pants.”

“Ah, homoerotic subtext,” he sighs. “My favorite trope.”

“Oh,” I snap back, shoving him forward, “I forgot, we’re just business associates.” I give him a scathing look. “No time for bloke talk.”

“This isn’t bloke talk. I’m making you uncomfortable with my homosexuality,” He says in a high-pitched sing-song voice then winks at me.

“Oh, we’re past the point that you hitting on me makes me uncomfortable,” I lie. I am a little uncomfortable. But, hey, I made the choice to be this close. I can’t backtrack now.

He chuckles, resuming his stance. “That really bothered you, didn’t it, Basher? When I told you we weren't friends?”

“It was ungrateful, you bastard.”

“Oh, please tell me what I have to be grateful for,” he challenges.

“I came to make sure you were okay. Both Evelyn and you.”

“Aw, how sweet,” he cooes, rolling his eyes.  He lowers his aim. “No one asked you to play guardian angel, sweetheart.”

Now I’m actually a little annoyed. “Would you have preferred that I just let Mags publish his piece about Addison O'Neill’s striking resemblance to James Moriarty?”

“Keep your voice down,” he says idly, twirling the gun on his finger.

I rush him, gripping the gun. “Jim, this is not a toy. Don’t do that.”

He gives me this “come hither” look, his black eyes gazing up at me through his lashes. “Do you worry about me, Sebastian?” he whispers, his voice soft and sensual. "Do you worry something will happen to me? Would you _miss me_ , tiger?"

No one has ever in my entire life looked at me with that sort of fire in their eyes. The fact that Jim’s faking it makes me feel a tad ill. Discomfort falls on me like fog. I take another step back. He’s won our little game of Gay Chicken. I hold up my hands. “Fine, you win.”

He cackles. “I always do.”

~~

We’re at a stoplight, almost to the college, when he says blankly, “Let’s rob a bank.”

He says it so evenly, so nonchalantly, it’s almost like he’s mentioning the rain clouds gathering on the horizon. I cast a sidelong glance his way. He’s leaning his head against the window, his eyes glazed over. He blinks once, twice, then sits up to look at me, his face taking on that quiet mania that defined Moriarty.

Wait, is he serious? “What?”

“Let’s rob a bank,” he repeats, his voice less far away.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to rob a bank.”

“If you need money—”

“FUCK YOU, YOU IDIOT! I don’t _need_ money! I need to go rob a bank!”

“What? Why?”

“Because there’s not time to kill a man!”

That’s what I call sound logic. “Do you have time to rob a bank? Are you gonna cancel your class?”

“No!” He’s practically foaming at the mouth. He checks his watch. “We have an hour and a half. We have a time limit! I love time limits! Let’s go. Quick! Turn left here!”

My heart is starting to beat faster. Adrenaline is starting to course through my veins. No time to think.  The vehicle is turning left, seemingly of its own volition. “All right, you’re the boss.”

~~

I’ve got the bank manager on her hands and knees, while Jim, his face hidden beneath a ski mask, prances about the room, further terrifying the patrons-turned-captives.

“ _No one wants to play, no one wants to play_ ,” he sings. “Come on, someone, _someone_ be a hero. I know you want to! How about you?” His attention zooms in on a middle-aged man who’s holding his heart. “Problems?” He feigns sympathy. “ _Heart_ problems?”

While he taunts the poor fucker on the floor, I hear the imperceptible sound of a gun cock, and instantly, I’m on some retired cowboy who reeks of tobacco, bashing his head against the floor until he’s out cold. His handgun slides across the room, and Jim scrambles for it, cackling like a maniac. I’m trying not to smile.

“Look what I’ve got,” he screeches. “I’ve actually never fired one of these before.” He fires a few times in the air, screams drowning out the echoes of the blasts.

“Oh, shut it, the lot of you. Like you’ve never heard gunshots before. Now, has anyone called the police?” he asks in a high-pitched voice.

Those on the floor shake their heads, denying this.

“Oh dear, come on now, WHAT IS THE FUN IN THAT?” he roars, suddenly livid. “How can I enjoy this if you’re all going to be a bunch of crybabies?!”

He aims for the bank manager at my feet. “Come on, no one wants to be a hero? No one? Isn’t this the home of the brave? WHY ARE YOU ALL JUST SITTING THERE LIKE A BUNCH OF DUMMIES?” He grows more and more impatient as he shouts until finally one of the captives lunges for him, knocking him over. The gun goes off, then slides beneath the teller’s counter.

“Oy! Careful!” I shout, aiming the stolen rifle at the attacker. She stops dead in her tracks, hands above her head.

Back on his feet, Jim is cackling. “Finally! Someone has the balls to put up a fight!” He pulls his attacker close to him, tugging his mask down for a split second to kiss her cheek. “Oh, thank you, my dear.” Then he shoves her back to the floor. He turns to a little boy who is cowering in his grandfather’s arms. “By the way, you should never hit a girl. Or shove. Bad manners. Very naughty. Tell Granpa there to give me his wallet.”

Faint wails of klaxons sound in the distance.

“Wrap it up, boss,” I tell him. “We gotta go.”

Pocketing the old man’s wallet, Jim chirps, “Quickly, everyone scooch in.” No one obeys, frozen in terror. He turns to me, his shoulders sagging dramatically. “No one’s playing with me, Colonel,” he whines.

“Everyone move!” I fire the rifle into the crowd, and they move in closer to one another, covering their ears.

“Thank you, dear,” Jim says. “Time for a selfie!” He holds his phone above his head and snaps a quick photo of himself and the crowd behind him. “Oh no, Hero Girl--excuse me, Woman, looks like you had your eyes closed. One more. Everyone say ‘bank robbery!’”

Silence.

Fuming, he orders at the top of his lungs, “SAY ‘BANK ROBBERY’!”

A rather lackluster “bank robbery” echoes his demand. The wailing gets louder. “Come on, boss!”

“Right, right, coming, coming,” he sings. “You’ve been great, all of you. Really. Bless you. And see, no one had to die? Except maybe that guy. He looks like he's bleeding pretty badly. Oh well. You can't win 'em all, can you?”

I toss a few bags of cash his way, and together we run out the back door to the stolen vehicle. We drive away, the money tucked away in the trunk so that when the ink explodes, it won’t affect us.

Once we’re tucked away in the cover of the Galveston Island State Park, we torch the stolen car, the masks, and the money. Jim beams at the wild flames.

We don’t have much time, though. We dash back to my rental car, which we parked about a half mile from the bridge leading to the island, and speed away.

Jim’s panting becomes laughter. “I cannot tell you how much I’ve missed this,” he says when he can manage it.

“What’s that exactly?”

“Terrifying people. Creating chaos. Running from the cops.”

“Sounds all a bit juvenile for you, considering the level you operated at.”

“I enjoy the chase. Even when I was at the top of the foodchain, I was still playing at outsmarting the Ice Man. For a long time, I didn’t have the freedom to get my hands dirty. Now I do.”

I turn to smile at him. “So, you feel a little better?”

“I no longer feel like I’m going to murder _every single one_ of my students.”

“Well, that’s a plus, I suppose.”

“Debatable. They really are a thick lot. Tragedy to keep it in the gene pool.”

“So, why did you give this up?  If you loved it so much?”

His smile fades. He licks his lips. “I didn’t want to. I just had to get rid of Sherlock.”

“But why? I thought you liked the cat-and-mouse game you two played.”

“I did. But I realized, when I let Mycroft catch me that it wasn’t . . . healthy. Not anymore.” He seems to be thinking over his words before he lets them out of his mouth. “I was willing to sacrifice being away from Evelyn because I couldn’t control my obsession. The only way to be rid of my obsession was to be rid of Sherlock, and the only way to get rid of Sherlock was to make him think I’d offed myself. Which gave me the excellent opportunity of escaping to start a whole new life.”

“I could’ve just shot Holmes, you know.  You didn’t have to make him commit suicide.”

“Boooring.  Mental illness runs in the Holmes family, and _so many_ of The Ice Man's adversaries wanted to hold that over him.”

I let myself process this. Like I said before, you only get a few questions with Moriarty before he shuts you down. “But why did you let Holmes collar you?”

He shrugs.  His gaze is fixated out his window.  “I needed to know more about Sherlock. I wanted to know _every single goddamned_ detail about him. And the Ice Man would give me anything I wanted as long as I sold out the terrorist cells across Europe.”

“What did you learn?” What could be worth what he went through?

I can see his grin reemerge in the ghostly reflection in the window. “Sherlock Holmes has a very dysfunctional family. I took full advantage.”

“You could always just make a comeback.”

“I will. Later. I miss what I had, but I don’t miss having to schedule my criminal life around Evelyn’s playgroups and doctor’s appointments.”

“Just have Amber and Susan watch her, then go out and raise hell.”

Disgust paints his face. “Absolutely not.”

“What? Why do you hate them?”

“Because they keep inviting Evelyn to their church events.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t want my daughter believing that religious bullshit.” He gives me a sarcastic grin. “No offense.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to have her in church.”

“Oh my God,” he sighs, “and I say that ironically. I’m not putting her in church to be brainwashed into believing that there’s inherent ‘right’ and ‘wrong.’ There’s no one in the sky who determines morality; it’s practically child abuse to tell your child that there is.”

“But you want her to behave, right? And be good?”

He rolls his eyes and groans.

“I’m just saying church might help with that.” We arrive at the parking lot of the college. His next class starts in ten minutes.

He cocks an eyebrow. “Are you saying she’s not well-behaved, Moran?”

“No, I’m saying that, I don’t know, I just don’t want you to be held accountable for not having her in church.”

He chokes on a laugh. "Accountable? To who?"

"The Lord?"

“Of all my supposed sins, Bash, I doubt not having my child in church will be what damns me to Hell.”

“Love covers a multitude of sins. Evey loves you, and you love her.”

His shoulders tighten.  “Please shut up, my poor deluded Catholic sniper WHO MURDERS PEOPLE FOR A LIVING.”

I glare at him. “She wants to go.”

He remains silent. We can still hear the klaxons wailing in the distance. “She’s a child,” he says after a long moment. “She doesn’t differentiate fiction from reality well. I don’t want to confuse her. Life’s easier to digest when you realize it’s random and chaotic. You'd probably be a much healthier, happier human being if you accepted that, rather than searching for meaning in a meaningless universe. I don't want her to live her life in denial, searching for something she'll never find.” He tilts his head back and forth, studying me. “You worry quite a bit about her, don’t you?”

“I worry about both of you.”

“Is that why you get offended when I call you a business associate?” he sneers. “Is that why you think we’re ‘friends’?”

God, he’s such a fucking arsehole. “You called _me_ when she went missing. You trusted _me_ to watch her when you got yourself abducted. You came to see _me_ before you left London for good. You talk a lot of shit for someone who’s counted on _me_ for basically the only important thing in his life for the last three years.”

His eyebrows are raised high. A bell rings somewhere, indicating that it’s 15:00.

“Go on, then,” I say, reaching over him to open his door. “Go teach.”

He doesn’t leave. He sits there studying me with his signature viper-like frigidity. With what appears to be some effort, he places his hand on my shoulder. “If I had friends, you’d be my favorite.”

My jaw drops.  Well. That’s . . . sweet? Weird? “Thanks, boss.”

He pats my shoulder before getting out of the car walking to his class. Then he stops, saunters over to the driver’s side and says, “Stay for tea tonight.”

 


	17. Auxiliary Spiral

_ November 2012 | Basher’s POV _

_ 14.11.12 _ _   
_ _ 03:26 UTC _ _   
_ _ Deer PP Bashur _ _   
_ _ dinasors ar eckstink. pleas come vizid us. _ _   
_ __ luve evelyn

That’s one of the emails I get before one of my sessions with Anisa.  Because Evelyn is brilliant and, at four-years-old, has pretty much mastered phonetics of the English language.  And she knows how to send me e-mails on her daddy’s iPad. Tell me she’s not the smartest little girl. Seriously, tell me.  I dare you. 

“What are you grinning about?” Anisa asks me when she returns from “freshening up.”

“Nothing.”  I toss my phone to the nightstand beside me.  

“Saw your flight confirmation on the counter. Why do you have a layover in Texas on a flight from Australia?”

I shrug. “Just. . . bad choices?”

She raises an eyebrow, his disbelief evident. “You got another girl in Texas?”

“Sort of.”

She pouts. “Ooh, I’m a little jealous.”

“Ah, don’t worry, Ani,” I tell her, pulling her into my lap. “You’re the only callgirl for me.”

“Damn straight I am,” she answers, kissing me.

The thing is though, I'm spending less and less time with Anisa, and I’m making more and more trips to Texas.  Only when it’s convenient. Usually. Sometimes it’s inconvenient, but if it’s Mags’s money, who gives a fuck? (Except, it hasn’t been Magnussen’s money for a month now, due to a fuck-up in Monte Carlo.)

I start leaving some things at their house in the Galveston suburbs. Because the guestroom is officially Evelyn’s playroom, I’m not allowed to leave guns or rifles in there, but Jim’s cleaned out the top drawer of her dressing-up chest for me to keep some things, like pants and socks. I keep a toothbrush and a razor behind the mirror in the wc.

I sleep on the sofa. Sometimes, on weekends, we’ll have “sleepovers” in which I set up a tent in the living room for the two of them to sleep in while a series of Disney movies play in the background. I sleep on the sofa close by. I know I should be embarrassed about it, even ashamed, but it’s nice.

Maybe Ani  _ should  _ be jealous.

~~

_ January 2013 | Basher’s POV _

“Papa Tiger, papa, papa!” Evelyn screeches when she sees me at the airport. I kneel down to catch her when she lunges at me, and she hugs me tight, kissing my cheek repeatedly. God, she’s grown so much since the last time I saw her three weeks ago. “Papa Tiger! I got you a surprise!”

“Really? What is it?”

“Can’t tell you! It’s a surprise!”

Jim is beaming at his little girl, that real legitimate smile that he has only for her, and I can’t stop this weird sort of melting feeling in my gut. He loves her so much. The unease I initially felt about his authentic parental love for Evelyn has almost completely gone, and now I just find it . . . sweet.

I actually really want to hug him. I’m glad to see him. I’m glad to see him with Evelyn. I’m glad to see both of them.

“What’s the surprise?” I ask him.  I know I should be suspicious, but I’ve actually come to expect compliance from Jim during these visits.  Since that night I broke into his house, he hasn’t tried to murder me, and he hasn’t attempted to thwart my plans to visit Evelyn, so I think I’m in the clear.  Or as in the clear as one can be with Jim Moriarty.

“There’s a bed in the playroom,” he says, as though it’s not exciting as Evelyn is making it out to be.

Evelyn reaches for him, incensed. “No, Daddy! No! It’s a surprise!”

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” I kiss her cheek, then set her down. “I’ll be surprised when I get there, I promise.”

She grips my hand (she’s so strong and so amazing) and then Jim’s in the other.  “Promise?” On instinct, we both lift her up to swing her.

“Yes, I’ve already forgotten it, rugrat.”

“I’m notta rat,” she laughs.  “Do it again!”

~~

After supper, as Evelyn is working on one of these preschool workbooks that’s supposed to make her smarter or something, I ask Jim about the bed.

“Your giant bulk was making the couch cushions sink. I thought if you were going to be staying here, you might as well have your own furniture to wreck.”

I smirk. “You like having me here,” I tease.

“I tolerate having you here.”

“Tolerance is letting me sleep on the sofa. Buying a bed is a completely different story.”

“I’ll take it back if you don’t dial the arrogance down a notch. Evelyn, sweetheart, you’ve got your ‘q’ backwards again.”

“No, daddy that’s a ‘p.’”

“There’s no ‘p’ in ‘quick’.” He turns back to me. “I just hope the pink and the unicorns in the playroom won’t tarnish your fragile masculinity.”

“There’s enough  _ Batman _ and  _ Toy Story _ that I think I’ll be okay.” There’s a movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn slowly. Out the kitchen window, I see Amber and Susan staring back at me out of their own kitchen window. They’re smiling and waving, so I wave back.  “You’ve the friendliest neighbors.”

Jim grits his teeth, swearing under his breath. Evelyn gasps at the word, then laughs as Jim orders her to never repeat that word. He gets to his feet and storms from the living room into the kitchen. “Goddamned Baptist lesbians!”

I go after him, grabbing his elbow. “Jim, don’t make a scene.” He starts to flash the vee sign, but I catch him in time. “I thought you were aiming for inconspicuous.”

“They are always staring, waiting to see if ‘Elliott’ is here!”

“Oh?” My mind immediately goes to  _ menage-a-trois  _ with the hot Lesbian neighbors.

Jim glowers. “Don’t flatter yourself, idiot. They’re firm believers in a child having two parents. So they're always worried that Evey is being neglected by her 'Papa'.”

I wave back to them again, smiling just in case they are interested in a threesome.  Jim snaps my arm down. “Stop it! Don’t encourage them! They might come over!”

“So?”

“ _ So,  _ I don’t  _ like  _ them.”

“You don’t like them because you think they think you’re not a good parent,” I laugh.

“I’m a great father,” he snarls. “Just because I don’t drag my child to a cult meeting at the crack of dawn every Sunday morning like a superstitious neanderthal!”

I cover his mouth. “They can’t hear you, Jim. Calm down. You’ll frighten Evelyn.”

“I’m not frightened,” she shouts from the living room.

Jim jerks away from me. “I destroyed them in the bake sale, and now they just can’t leave me alone.”

I can’t not laugh at that. “What?”

“Their preschool had a bake sale the same week as Evelyn’s. We had competing bake sales.”

“Bake sales aren’t competitive.”

His eyes narrow. “They tried to sell granola biscuits, Basher.  _ Granola _ . And when their little hellspawn come over here, they bring their own quinoa. They won’t eat the apples I have—which are straight from the farm because Evelyn and I pick them from the orchard—because the farmer who owns the orchard also has stock in an “inorganic” pesticide, whatever the hell that means. Oh, and after your surprise visit where I shot you—”

“You didn’t shoot me, okay? You were way off.”

“Fine, when I shot  _ at _ you, they came over to share some gun control literature with me. They wanted to make sure I was aware of the dangers of having a child and a gun in the same house.  We live in TEXAS!  Everyone has a gun.”

“Jim, they’re just trying to be good neighbors.”

“They think that I’m a bad father!” He stalks over to the window, throws it open and shouts, “And I’m not! I’m a great father!”

Evelyn is suddenly under foot. “I wanna yell at the neighbors out the window! Papa Tiger, pick me up!”

“No, no, we’re not yelling out the window. None of us,” I shut the window, “are yelling out the window anymore.” I wave to the neighbors again, then close the curtains. “Sweetheart, go finish your worksheet.”

“I’m done!”

“You’re finished,” Jim corrects her. “Meats and cakes are done. People are finished.”

“I wanna be a cake!”

“Evey, darling, no. We are not cakes. We are people.”

~~

After Jim’s read Evelyn a bedtime child’s science book (because fairytales are for Sundays, much like sugary cereals) I tell Jim, “I know Susan and Amber bug you about the whole religious bit, but we should get her baptized. It’s important to me that I get my little girl in church.”

“She’s not yours,” he says, not quite convincing. “And she’s certainly not getting dunked for Christ or whatever the hell it is you people do.”

~~

_ February 2013 | Basher’s POV _

It took a long time to find a parish that I approved of that would be willing to baptize a four-year-old child with two fathers (one a staunch atheist and one a dishonorably discharged Colonel), but I found one about three hours away. It’s Eastern Orthodox, not Roman Catholic, but when I explain our situation, they were (mostly) understanding.

“Evelyn, you can’t wear a bathing suit.” She’s wandered into the bathroom while I’m shaving, clutching a  _ The Little Mermaid _ beach towel and wearing a bright pink bathing suit.

“But I’m going swimming!”

“No, you’re getting baptized.”

“In the water!”

“Yes, but you don’t wear a bathing suit. You wear a dress.”

“Um, no. I don’ wanna go swimmin’ in my dress.”

“You’re not going swimming. Jim, please, where’s her dress?”

The bastard is still on the couch, in his pants, reading the news. He’s not happy about the baptism, and he’s doing very little to hide it.

“I don’t know, Basher, you’ll have to pick one out.”

I can hear the smirk in his voice. My blood boils.  “You didn’t have one ready?!”

“No.”

“That’s fine, it’s not like I’ve been on a twenty-hour nonstop flight after a three day stake-out!” I shout back down the stairs. “For God’s sake, put some trousers on!”

“I will before we leave.”

I turn to beg my daughter to get dressed, my hands clasped in front of me.  “Evey, please, please go put on a dress.”

“I don’t like wearing dresses.”

“Princess, please, just do this for me.”  If this goes on much longer, I’ll be on my knees, pleading with her to find a dress.  “Jim! For the actual love of God, get her in a dress!”

She runs away from me, screaming “no.”

~~

At the church, despite the chaotic morning, I get choked up at the sight of my little girl in her lacy white dress. Her hair is chaotic and perfect as ever, with a white bow clipped to the side. She’s insisted on carrying her Batman purse, and given how absolutely precious she looks, I couldn’t tell her no.

Jim grumbles the entire time. When the priest makes a comment about God providing love even to a family that is an abomination, I have to grab Jim’s shoulder to keep him from attacking. Try as he might, he won’t be able to ruin this day.

When Evelyn is submerged, though, her pink bathing suit shows through the wet white dress. “I wore my bathing suit!” she tells the priest, then gives me a devious grin.

My grip on Jim’s shoulder tightens. “Why did you let her wear her bathing suit?” I hiss.

“Why are you making her participate in superstitious nonsensical rituals?”


	18. Claustrophobia

_ May 2013 | Jim’s POV _

Sometimes I feel emotionally bloated. Those times almost always involve Evelyn. For example, the first time she said “Dada” I was a hysterically proud father. All these feelings of paternity, victory, pride, love, et cetera, they just popped up, and I had no idea what to do with them so I just laughed and hugged the little one as tight as I could without suffocating her. 

It’s uncomfortable, handling that rush of feeling, that flood of chemicals and hormones. It makes my skin feel too tight. Or maybe it’s my ribcage that is too tight. Maybe my lungs are too big. Either way, something needs to be ripped apart so these “feelings” can escape.

Of course, you can’t do that—that’s not how chemicals and neurotransmitters work.  So I manage those moments where everything feels so intense that my body can’t process it.  I just wait for them to pass so I can function as a human being again.

But then there’s this new element that’s just emerged as I watch Basher play with Evelyn in the surf. It’s so normal, so ordinary. Fathers all along the beach are doing the exact same thing, celebrating Memorial Day, celebrating the day off. And yet watching my former employee play with my perfect little angel makes me . . .ugh, I can’t even describe it.

Basher’s strong arms lift the small, giggling child out of the water. She squeals as he tosses her over an oncoming wave, both of them glimmering with salt water and sunscreen, looking more ethereal than human. They’ve been playing at this for fifteen minutes, yet neither one appears to be bored.

How boring is that?

Except. . . 

_ There’s always an exception, isn’t there? _

Something in my reptile brain is ecstatic about the sight of them. Tiger playing with his cub. My child. The three of us together simply because it’s a hot day and Evelyn wanted to swim.  It’s a perfect composition, like some sort of emotional Golden Ratio. Everything fits. Everything satisfies.

Evelyn points to me on the shore where I’m hiding from the sun under the umbrella. (For the record, I was playing with her while Basher flirted with some college girls operating a slushy cart, but I swear, I could feel my skin wrinkle and spot beneath the tanning oil. I don’t tan, unfortunately. Just redden and age.) I wave at her, unable to control the idiotic grin on my face.

And then Basher turns to see where she’s pointing. With his stupid fucking haircut, water dripping off the choppy bits, sliding down his neck and those delicious broad shoulder, sliced with scars, plumped with muscle, sparkling in the sun and soaked swim trunks clinging to his—that’s enough.

The scars on his face shift as he flashes that toothy, absurdly charming smile. He and Evelyn both wave back to me. My heart clenches. It’s too much, and it feels so warm. It’s like shooting up; softer and subtler but overwhelming nonetheless.

This is so ordinary. I know it is. I want to hate it. But it’s quaint and sweet and satisfies some primitive instinct for community or some such nonsense. I suppose ultimately none of us are above evolution and biology.

“Come play with us, Daddy!” Evelyn shouts over the waves and the noise of other beachgoers.

I’m frozen at the prospect of something so boring, so perfect. “I just reapplied, precious.”

She spits her tongue out at me and hops into Papa Tiger’s arms. Even from a distance, I see the mischievous glint in her eye as she whispers in Basher’s ear. He throws his head back and laughs.

And then the bastard has the audacity to sprint up the shore at me, cackling. He sweeps large amounts of sand towards me with his big, stupid feet, but my detestation of sand makes me faster. I’m on my feet, out of the chair as the copious amounts of sand hit the backrest. “Sebastian Moran!” I glare at him, livid and ready to tear into him when wet sand slams into my flank, its source just out my periphery. Not that I need to see it to know that my darling little daughter who I should’ve left on the docks has just nailed me with a pail of goddamned wet sand.

The grainy bits seep into my swimsuit as I stand stock still, trying not to lose my temper. Basher is laughing hysterically at the shock on my face, and Evelyn is prancing around proudly announcing her success with, “Got you, daddy!”

When he can compose himself, Basher eyes me, watching for signs that I’ll murder Evelyn. When he finds none, he breaks into hysterics again.

“She’s a brilliant tactician,” he tells me between giggles.

“Yessss,” she hisses back, hurling her sandy little body at my waist and squeezing me tightly. “Got you, daddy! I’m brilliant!”

When I look down at her, she gives me this dark smile, one that looks so much like mine, it reawakens that emotional bloating. “And now you hafta come play with us.  ‘Cause you’re all sandy.”

Rotten little bitch. I am heart-achingly proud of her. She’s mastered the distract and flank routine, and she roped in a bigger, more powerful person to assist her, and her goal was not only to annoy me but to get me back in the water with her. She’s created chaos to get what she wants, to create her own order.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, little miss,” I tell her through tight lips. She cackles, and goddamn her, it has the same cadence as Basher’s.

She grabs my hand and leads me past Basher. “Payback’s a bitch,” I tell him softly.

He winks. “I just follow Moriarty’s orders,” he answers, following us back to the waves.

~~

Basher bursts through my bedroom door, obscenities spewing from his lips.

“Hush,” I snap at him. “You’ll wake Evelyn.”

“Why  _ the fuck _ is there sand in my bed?”

I close the book I’m reading and set it aside.  “I would say go ask  _ your _ daughter, but it’s almost midnight, and I’ll castrate you if you wake her up.”

His eyes flash with a mixture of paternal pride and rage. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

“I am. But that,” I motion to the wet sand clinging to his pyjamas, “was Evelyn’s idea. She carried the sand in water bottles and hid them in the bottom of the cooler.”

“You put her up to it.”

“No. I told her I needed to get even. She came up with dumping wet sand on your bed all on her own.”

“Ooh, Father and Daughter Consulting Criminals. Arsehole.” He slams the door shut behind him. I lock it just in case he decides to return and shake his sandy sheets off in my room.


	19. Chaos (Fatherhood)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck you i love this chapter

_June 2013 | Basher’s POV_

It’s rare that Jim calls me by himself. I mean, sometimes he’ll call with Evelyn (and oh my God, Evelyn can call me by herself, because she’s the smartest little baby in the world), but I can’t even think of a time off the top of my head that he’s called me without her since her abduction.

So, I try not to panic when he videocalls me without Evelyn in sight.

“Everything all right?” I immediately ask.

He’s massaging his temples. I can’t tell where he is. It looks like a chain fast food restaurant, but I can’t imagine Jim’s taken her to one of those. (The man will fry her eggs but won’t take her to McDonald’s.  Jim logic is bizarre.) “When are you going to be back?”

Instinctively, I feel myself recoil. I like being there, don’t get me wrong, but on my terms. I don’t like feeling crowded, and I don’t like feeling obligated.  The great thing about my relationships with Jim and Evelyn and Anisa is that there are no strings attached. But now Jim’s asking questions about my schedule. Like he _expects_ me back.

“Why?  I was just there two weeks ago.”

He groans, scrubbing his hand over his face. He does a double take to the right. “Evelyn Moriarty! No! You know better! Because they have red in them, that’s why!” He ceases his off-screen argument and looks at me with a wild glare. “Hang on.”

He sets the phone down and I get a view of the ceiling and the corner of a frog-themed logo. Oh, they’re getting frozen yogurt.  Again, Jim logic is just illogical.

Jim returns a moment later, chocolate-stained gummy bears sticking to his hand. He props the phone up on something. To someone off camera he says, “I’ll pay for them later, Jesus! She has an allergy to red!”

“What’s going on?”

“When are you coming back to Galveston?”

“Why do you assume I am?”

His eyes narrow.  Those black eyes don’t intimidate me the way they used to.  “Because you’re disgustingly loyal and you love my little lady, who, by the way, ran into the car park shouting, ‘He’s not my daddy!’ at her doctor’s visit today. And because she’s black and I’m white, the police were called! I almost got fucking arrested for abducting a minor!”

I break into laughter. Evelyn is a smart little girl. Jim tries not to smile. He’s secretly pleased with how manipulative his daughter is, even if it does make his life a bit more difficult. “Stop laughing.”

“Why did you take her to get frozen yogurt if she did that? You always reward her bad behavior!”

He snaps back defiantly, “It’s not a reward! She’s had a rough day! She had to get her DTaP  boosters today.”

“So was the incident in the car park before or after her shots?”

He purses his lips. “That’s difficult to answer. She hasn’t technically had her shots yet.”

I groan.  “Oh my God.  Jim. Why is she getting frozen yogurt if she hasn't even had her shots?” I roll my eyes. “Jesus, Jim, you always do this. She just plays you, and you give her whatever she wants!”

“She had to get some bloodwork done!”

“So, what, you just let her off the hook for almost getting you arrested? Because she had some blood drawn?”

He stares me straight in the eye, which is a strange feat considering it’s a videochat. “If you absolutely must know, we were escorted out, and the whole thing was very traumatic for her.”

I crack up. “For what?!”

“Sebastian Moran,” he says coldly during my giggle fit, “I need you to get back here and take Evelyn to get her shots. I’m not allowed past the waiting room anymore. And I don’t like the other doctors. This whole country is full of quacks!”

I am fucking hysterical. I think I have tears seeping out of my face. “What in the seven unholy hells did you do to get banned from the doctor’s office?”

He leans in to the screen and whispers, “They pricked her finger and she screamed and I panicked and we were asked to return with a different caregiver.”

I can only imagine the havoc unleashed by a panicked Professor Moriarty.

~~

It takes both of us to wrestle Evelyn into the car and into her carseat, and the entire time she’s screaming like we’re jabbing hot needles beneath her fingernails. Thankfully, since it’s the middle of the day in the middle of the week, most of our—Jim’s—neighbors aren’t home, and the ones who are are too old to hear what’s happening.

Jim sits in the back with her, trying to reassure her, but his own apprehension only feeds hers. She’s having an absolute meltdown, saying things like, “You’re supposed to love me! You’re supposed to protect me! Why are you letting them hurt me again?” And Jim is pale and trying to reason with her, and the whole situation is like a piano wire that’s been over-tightened.  Any minute now, it will snap.

“Evelyn, it’s not that bad, precious,” I tell her. “I got shots a year ago so I could go to Thailand.”

Her eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, wide as saucers. “Izzat what happen’ to your face?” She motions to her own face, indicating the corresponding spaces where my scars are.

Fucking brat.  “No that’s not what happened to my face.” Nevermind that I've had these scars since she's known me.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that was an angry, wounded tige—monkey.” I’d rather not tell Evelyn I got scarred by a tiger.  You know, since tigers are endangered, thanks in part to my own dear self. “That hurt. Shots don’t hurt.”

Jim kicks the back of my seat. “Don’t lie to her!”

“Yeah!” she parrots back. “Don’t lie!”

“It’s not a lie; it’s not that bad. I promise.”

Jim leans up to hiss in my ear, “You can’t tell her that! That is a lie! Your pain threshold is probably very different from a four year old’s.”

“Jim, you’re just making this worse. I wish you hadn’t come.” We’d had a long argument about him joining us; but you don’t argue with Jim for results—he just does whatever the fuck he wants.

Evelyn tries to make a run for it in the parking lot, but I’m faster and stronger (but not by much, evidently). I carry her into the freezing waiting room, my senses assaulted with the smell of disinfectant and latex. They’ve tried to make it inviting, with a giant fish tank, and a film playing quietly on a giant screen, and readily available soft toys, but ultimately, none of the children present look comfortable.

“Mr. O'Neill,” the receptionist says behind a sliding glass window, clearly unhappy to see him.

“It’s _doctor_ ,” Jim sneers back.

“You know what Dr. Collins told you.”

“Dr. Collins can shove—”

I spin him around and hand Evelyn to him. “Stop it! Go sit down!” He sulks away, murmuring to his daughter. “Hi,” I smile to the receptionist, doing my damnedest to smoothe this over. I can’t drop everything I’m doing and come to Galveston every time Evelyn needs a check-up. “I’m the alternate caregiver for Evelyn. Her dad, her other dad. Papa. Sometimes she calls me Tiger, but that’s just left over from when she was, like, two. But we’re not, like, together. She just has two dads, but we’re not—I’m straight. I’m not gay.”  I can’t tell you why, but it is suddenly so important that I make sure that is understood.

The receptionist shoves a clipboard of papers at me, staring me dead in the eye. “Addison O'Neill cannot go back with her, and if he tries to, we’re calling the police. Again.”

I nod, trying to keep the mood light.  “I’ll do my best to keep him under control.”

He cocks an eyebrow, clearly disbelieving that I can control Dr Addison O'Neill.

~~

Evelyn absolutely freaks the fuck out when I try to take her back to the examination room. She’s gripping Jim’s shirt and screaming and crying, and Jim is crying, and all the other kids in the waiting room are looking at their parents’ terrified, and it’s just chaos. My experiences in Iraq were infinitely less traumatic than dragging Evelyn out of the waiting room.

Here’s the thing about my little girl: she gets under your skin. She knows the buttons to push. She’s telling me that I’m her Tiger, that I’m supposed to protect her, and that actually really fucking hurts my heart. When we get to the exam room, I ask the nurse to give us a minute.

I take a knee so that I’m eye-level with my little lady. I try to take her hands, but she pulls them away. “Evelyn, listen to me. Look at me.” She purposely points her head in the opposite direction. “Evelyn, are you listening?”

“No!”

“Listen, I am protecting you. I’m protecting you from all these nasty viruses and germs and diseases that used to kill little girls like you, okay?”

She gives me a sidewise glance, like she’s not sure she believes me.

“It might hurt a little, teeny bit, but only for a second, and it’ll keep you safe and healthy for a long time, okay?” Her posture loosens. She still won’t face me, but her arms drop to her sides. “I’m gonna tell the nurse to come back in and this will be over in twenty seconds, okay? You wanna count with me?”

She shakes her head, still pouting. I motion the nurse back in. “Okay, I told her it will only take twenty seconds,” I explain. “So we’re gonna count.”

The nurse, clearly tired of our high maintenance family, takes a seat next to Evelyn and rips open a cleansing cloth. I start counting. "One, two, three. . ." She takes Evelyn’s arm and cleans the site of the injection.

Evelyn screams bloody murder, startling both the nurse and myself. “Keep going,” I tell the nurse. “She’s fine.” I get to my feet to brace myself against the door, because inevitably, her daddy is going to come try to "rescue" her.

“IT HURTS!” Evelyn screeches.

“No it doesn’t. She’s just cleaning the skin. It’s like a little bath.”

The sounds of chaos emanate from the hallway. I hear pounding feet and the receptionist shouting, “Mr. O'Neill, we talked about this!” followed by, “Let me go! I have to get her!”

The nurse stares at me blankly.

I try to placate her. “It’s all right, I’m—I’m blocking the door.” With perfect timing, Jim rams his bulk into the door only to be knocked backwards when it doesn’t give. “Just keep—keep going.  We’re sort of on a time limit here.”

From the other side of the door comes Jim’s frantic line of questioning. “Evey?! Darling, are you okay? What’s happening?!”

“Ji--ADDISON, she is fine!”

Outside the room, I hear the receptionist and Jim arguing.

“I wannan exemption! We’re Jehovah’s Witnesses!”

“You cannot be back here. I’m calling the police.”

“Fine! Call them! I’ll sue your arse til kingdom come, you racist piece of shit!” And then there’s scratching at the door. “Let me in! Evelyn can you hear me? Are you okay?”

The nurse sighs. “Am I doing this or not?”

“Yes. Just--hang on, I gotta go make sure Daddy doesn’t get arrested.” I throw open the door, causing Jim to fall into the room. I grab him by his shirt collar and drag him into the hall. “Just two seconds, okay?”

Jim tries to brush by me, but I grab him and shut the door. “Sir? Sir?” I call after the receptionist, who is already on his mobile. “Can you not do that please? He’s--he’s got PTSD, things get to him, just give me a second, please?”

The receptionist raises his eyebrow, thinking it over. “Hang on. I’ll call you back if I need you.” He hangs up and waits expectantly.

“Ji--Addison. You’re making this worse. You’re scaring her. You’ve got to calm down. She’s--”

I’m cut off by another glass-shattering screech from the exam room, followed closely by Jim’s own scream. He makes for the door again, but I grab him, and he collapses into my arms, burying his face in my shoulder.

The nurse opens the door, looking satisfied with herself. “All done.”

As soon as Evelyn sees Jim, she bursts into tears and then Jim bursts into tears, and the whole damn thing devolves into screaming and crying and the receptionist trying to drag Jim back to the waiting room.

~~

I get in the driver’s seat and slam the car door. In the back, Evelyn is in Jim’s lap, and both are still sniffling. As evenly as I can, I say, “I have never been so embarrassed in my whole entire life.”

“It still hurts!” Evelyn shouts at me, pointing to the bright green plaster on her arm.

Jim nuzzles his cheek against her hair. “My poor little lady.”

I take a deep breath.  I don’t care what some egghead thinks; deep breathing does _nothing_ to quell my irritability.  “They’ve asked us to never come back.”

“Good. They’re all bloody con artists, masquerading around as health professionals!” Jim frowns. “Did you get the lollies?”

I hesitate. I shake my head, ashamed of my own weakness. I hold up the two Tootsie Pops. “You are _both_ so spoiled.  Neither one of you deserves these.”


	20. Silk Strands

_ July 2013 | Basher’s POV _

“No. Absolutely not. Four is too young for a sleepover.” Jim glares at Susan, who is still extending the invitation in her hand.

“We’ll be right next door, Addison,” she reasons. “I think it would be a great time for you and Elliott to just have some alone time, and Evelyn can get to know some of the kids that will be in her grade next year—”

Jim purses his lips before interrupting. “Actually, Elliott is going to be leaving that night.”

“Oh?  Is that so?”  Susan and Amber are now glaring at me, and I feel a bit cowed, if I’m honest.  I get the sneaking suspicion that they think “Elliott” is having an affair . . . which I guess isn’t wrong because “Elliott” sleeps with a callgirl in Greenwich. I start to contradict them, to set them straight, but Jim interrupts me, almost frantic in his irritation. “Yes, Elliott has to work, Susan. He’s gotta family to provide for.”

Susan and Amber turn their gaze to Jim, offering sad, knowing smiles.

And I know this is really stupid, but I don’t like being the bad guy in this charade. Elliott is a good husband (in a state that doesn’t recognize same sex marriages, can he really be called that?), and a great dad. Probably. I don’t know. I don’t know what Jim’s told them about Elliott. Hopefully not that Elliott kills people professionally because he’s really good at it. Well, Elliott’s probably not very good at it. But I am.  And  _ I  _ am also a good husband.  Or I would be. Will be. To a woman.

“I have a job,” I say stupidly.

“Mhm,” Amber says dubiously. “Anyway, just think about it, Jim. We’d love to have Evelyn over for Jaedyn’s birthday sleepover.”  Why Americans insist on such ridiculous spellings is beyond me.  For fuck's sake, if they wanted to use so many vowels, why not go all out and spell it Jeaighdyn?  Then I remember that Jim almost named Evelyn Aoife. . .the Irish do love their vowels. 

Jim glares pointedly at the invitation.  He crosses his arms in defiance, letting everyone on the street know that he is not, in fact, even going to touch the bloody invite.  I take it with a “thank you” and drag Jim (and the rubbish bins) back into the house before he can make a scene. 

Once in the kitchen, he snatches it from me and balls it up to hurl into the rubbish bin.  “I’ve already thrown away this damned thing four times. They’ve been trying to get an RSVP for a month!”

I check the window.  Sure enough, the lesbians are looking back at me from their yard.  They’re too far away to really make out their expressions, but I know instinctively that they are frowning at me.  “What have you told them about Elliott? Why do they hate me all of the sudden?”

He smirks, that vivacious flirtation suddenly flipping on. “Why? Are you worried Elliott’s reputation might be in tatters?”

“Yeah, our neighbors seem to think I’m a horrible husband.”

“You are a bit.”

“Wait, I am or Elliott is?”

“Christ, Basher, I don’t know what Elliott gets up to when he’s gone. I barely know who he is. He was supposed to be black and working in marketing until you showed up at three in the morning!”

“So you didn’t have a plan for Elliott?”

“Addison was supposed to be the long-suffering husband whose husband worked overseas.  I suppose he still is, but for fuck’s sake, it’s hard to play that role with those two always nosing about, asking where you are, why you weren’t at this event or that one! Christ!  And then they just held us hostage while we were getting the rubbish bins in! Who does that?! I’d pay you to kill them, you know.”

“Nope. Evey loves them. I can’t do anything that would hurt that little girl.”

“You’ve gone soft.”

I shrug my shoulders. I probably have. I have actually made contact with Carrie, asked her about her kiddies and her husband and so on.  She made it clear that she wasn’t interested unless I quit seeing Anisa. Well, she didn’t specify Anisa. She just said “whores and alcoholics.”  There was also something about the gambling, but it got lost in my own shouting back.

I retrieve the invitation and hold it up. “You know, I think this would be a good thing.  For both of you.”

“Oh, do you?” Jim asks sardonically.

I toss it at him. “Don’t be an arse. She’s never been without you willingly. You were either gone from her because you were kidnapped or she was gone from you because she was kidnapped. Don’t you think it might be a positive thing for her to be away from you because it’ll be fun and she wants to be?”

I can’t describe the look on his face. I can’t tell if he’s furious or heartbroken or still just hyped up from the confrontation he wanted to start with our neighbors in the street. His eyes are wide, and he’s gone a little pale. “My daughter doesn’t want to be away from me,” he says softly.

I can’t stop laughing. “Oh. Tsk, Jim. Jimmy. James--”

His expression sours at “Jimmy.”  “Ugh, no. Don’t call me that ever.  The next time you do, I will peel you like a potato.”

“Boss, Prof,” I reach out to embrace him, still laughing. “My poor dear insecure friend.” He is dead stiff against me, growling at the touch. “You know there’s gonna be a day when you won’t be the most important man in her life. She’ll have friends, she’ll have boyfriends, or maybe girlfriends or maybe both. And that’s healthy and good, yeah? It’s part of being a good--”

“I swear to your pretend God, if you finish that sentence with ‘good parent’ I will poison you in your sleep and tell Evelyn you ran off to the circus.” Jim jerks away from me. “I’m a great father!” He sulks off into the kitchen. “And I say that four is too young for a sleepover. Especially one with girls _ and _ boys.”

“Oh my God, Jim, it's not like she’ll come back here pregnant.”

“Anatomical differences are not something that I’m looking forward to discussing. And it’s certainly not something I want her to uncover at a sleepover.”

“For someone who more or less abandoned his rugrat when she was two, you are the most over-protective father.”

He pulls a knife out of the knifeblock, eyes blazing. “You are just as annoying as the lesbians! I’m a GREAT! FATHER!”

~~

It was a difficult win, but with some bribery, I talk Jim into letting Evelyn go to Jaedyn’s sleepover. And by bribery, I mean that I shell out a small fortune to get him a private spa night the same night as the sleepover. 

So, when I get a call saying that no refund will be provided even though the attendee left early, I think my fantasies of killing Jim are justified. Mother Mary, why can’t he just be still? The man used to love spa nights.

Mags’ new assistant Janine answers the phone when I call in to explain why I’ll be late getting back to London. She’s in charge of my schedule now because Mags doesn’t trust me to keep up with it. (Which, after my fuck-up in Monte Carlo, I can’t blame him. Whores and whiskey are always the cause of my troubles.)

“You’d better be calling from the airport,” she says without so much as a "hello." Janine has a little crush on me, and she’s not so bad herself. I like talking to her. I like hearing the teasing smile in her voice.

“I’m not. I’ve got some loose ends to wrap up.”

“You know Ani doesn’t do refunds.”

“Yeah, I know.  But that's not quite your business, is it?”

“And I’m not purchasing another ticket.”

“C’mon Janine, it’s not like it’s not in the budget.”

“Oh, it is. The third quarter budget specifically has a line item that says ‘Moran’s Cock-Uppery Fund’. You’ve expended it, unfortunately.”

“I can’t tell if you’re lying.”

She laughs. “What am I going to tell Charlie, eh? He expects you in the country.”

“Hey, I’m not scheduled to do anything for him for another week.” She makes a chiding sound like a mother’s disapproving hum. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’ll see what I can do about American Airlines. You’re on your own with Anisa,” she says. “And you have to be back in the country by Thursday. That’s my final offer.”

“Aw, you’d do that for little ol’ me?  You’re the best Janine. Big kiss.”

“Ah, ah, ah, Tiger, don’t make me take you to HR.”

I hang up and try for the Professor. He doesn’t answer, of course, because he’s probably off being a maniac. Regardless, I drive back to the suburbs, the entire world turning purple around me as the sun tries in vain to set.

I’m apprehensive, if I’m honest, that Jim is going to take matters into his own hands and murder Susan and Amber and free all the other children. . . or maybe “return” them to a zoo. Not our daughter, obviously. 

Why is Jim such terrible neighbor? He normally loves attention, but two women raise children beside him and suddenly his fatherhood is threatened?

Poor Jim. I’m starting to think the little flirt is insecure. Maybe that’s why he gets on so well with Evelyn; he feels secure in his role as her father.

Or maybe Jim’s just fickle. Actually, that answer seems infinitely more likely.

The house is dark and locked just the way I’d left it when I’d sent Jim off to the spa. Jim’s automobile is in the driveway, though. I knock a few times. No answer. I ring his mobile again. No answer.

A ping from my phone tells me I have a voicemail from Anisa. My stomach flutters for a brief second, but I tell myself I can check it later. Right now, I have to find the squirrelly mess of Moriarty who is delaying my return to the fittest woman I’ve ever met.

I crane my head to scan Susan and Amber’s yard. No sign of Jim. Just the lights from the kitchen reflecting in the dew starting to settle on the grass. The bushes are too sparse for him to adequately hide, and I don’t think the fucker could get on the roof. Sometimes, he’s graceful as a cat and other times, the bastard can’t make headway against the constant onslaught of gravity.

Oh. Of course. The tree house. James.  _ Goddamn. Overprotective _ . Moriarty.

I sneak into Susan and Amber's yard and up into the treehouse. Jim is sitting at the window, wrapped up in a sleeping bag and eating crisps. He’s watching the sleepover showcased via Amber and Susan’s living room window. He doesn’t even acknowledge my presence. When I’m settled beside him, he offers me the bag of crisps, not saying a word.

“This is really creepy, boss.”

“It’s creepy for you to be here, not me. I’m the father. You’re just some bloke who sleeps at the house sometimes.”

“You’re spying on little kids.”

“I’m spying on cult members who have my daughter.”

I sigh. Susan and Amber are sitting in a circle with a gaggle of kids in the center of the living room, leading them in some kind of clapping game. There’s probably four or five kids there, plus their own three rugrats. Evelyn’s sitting with her back to the window, so I can’t tell if she’s enjoying herself, but she’s definitely playing along.

“It’s twenty minutes past her bedtime,” Jim says in a low voice. He sounds the way he did when I picked him up in High Weald. Hollow, empty.

I clap my hand over his shoulder.  He’s not as frail as he seems. By no means is he muscular, but there’s certainly strength in his shoulders.  “Hey, Jim, she’s gonna be fine, all right?”

He flinches, as if he was completely unaware of my presence until that point. He turns to me, the light of the living room catching in his eyes. He blinks. He rolls his shoulders and hunkers down into his sleeping bag. “Her therapist says it’s best for her to stay on a routine.”

“Therapist?” I’m a little offended I didn’t know my little girl was seeing a therapist.

“She worries, sometimes. She worries that I won’t come back. Not always, of course, but sometimes.” I catch sight of a single tear running down his face. My heart races. My grip on his shoulder tightens. I scoot a little closer. My neck is hot and prickly, a symptom of my discomfort. I’m not sure what’s happening to me. “I worried a lot about what happened to her before I found her. I didn’t worry enough about would happen to her afterwards.”

“Mate, she has a great life. She loves you. You’re a great dad.”

He whips his face around to glare at me, his death glare so full with fury, I can practically smell the heat of hell radiating off of him. “IF I WAS A GREAT FATHER I WOULDN’T HAVE LEFT HER FOR TWO MONTHS, DOOFUS!”

Grabbing the back of his shirt, I drag him below the window ledge so that no one can see us. “Jesus Christ! Idiot! You don’t shout shit while you’re on a stake-out!” I hiss. We lay on the uneven wood floor of the treehouse for a long moment.

“When she gets out of her routine, she gets a little stressed, and when she gets a little stressed, she starts to worry,” he tells me after a long silence, as though I haven't just slammed both of us down onto the hardwood floor of the treehouse. “It snowballs from there. My daughter has anxiety at four because I fucked up! Fuck Sherlock Holmes!”

“Well, he’s dead, boss,” I whisper. “He’s dead. You won. Evey won. She’s got you all to herself. All your crazy, obsessive energy is directed towards her.” I smile at him, but I doubt he can see.

His voice is low and sounds almost frightened.  Confessional. “I love her, you know.”

“I know you do.”

“I didn’t think that love was legitimate. I thought it was a made-up notion, designed to make normal people feel a little less terrified about the arbitrariness of the universe. But I think that I love her. Really love her.”

“I’d say so. You shot yourself in the mouth for her.”  My uneasy chuckle doesn’t lighten the mood.

“Basher?”

“Yeah?”

“Love is absolutely paralyzing.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I worry about Evelyn all the time.  _ All of the time _ . When I take her for check-ups, when I drop her off at daycare, when I put her to bed at night, when I leave her with you—”

I cut him off. “Stop, stop, stop. Ok, listen, I don’t know, like, a ton about psychology and shit, but I know that when my guys got put in bad situations, situations where they almost died and shit like that, they would worry. And not just in the moment. I mean, they would worry for a long time afterwards too. And not always about themselves. When I was a captain, I had this one lieutenant, and one night we were ambushed. No big deal, of course, we took out the fuckers responsible, but that lieutenant was terrified to go to sleep after that. He was afraid something would happen to his kid or his mum if he did.”

“I don’t have PTSD,” Jim growled.

“All I’m saying is this: trauma is intrusive. Not just in the moment. It, like, hangs over you, poking at you at random times. You got tortured. Evey got taken from you. It’s not something you just walk away from and forget about, is it? But look,” I nudge his knee, sitting up. “She looks like she’s having a good time, yeah?”

Jim sits up to look out the window. Evelyn is clapping and laughing as Susan dances like a chicken in the middle of the circle. He growls. “Stop stealing my child’s affections!” he yells at her.

“And it’s probably okay that you’re jealous that Evelyn likes other people too.”

He slaps my face half-heartedly which makes me laugh. He mimes holding a rifle, aiming the imaginary weapon. “I could get rid of her right now and never deal with her church invites again.”

I save my breath regarding the church invite, but not regarding his aim. “Not like that you won’t. You’re just going to hit that one kid’s soft toy.”

“No, I can see her through the scope!”

I chuckle. “Yeah, that’s not where a scope would be, buddy.”

“Don’t patronize me. We’re not ‘buddies’.”

“I’m your favorite buddy.” I crawl behind him. “You have to let your cheek rest on the stock. Keep your elbows down. . .”

It’s probably a terrible idea to teach Moriarty how to handle a rifle, even an imaginary one, especially when I’ll likely to be leaving him in a few hours. But it’s nice to see him being Moriarty again. He starts giggling and cursing and just generally being obscene about the neighbors he hates.

“. . . And then poor Amber, sweet Amber who MAKES ME ABSOLUTELY BANANAS! Two shots. One in each eye. Because I hate those fuckin’ sympathetic eyes she gives me! I’m not wilting like a fucking flower!”

“Jim, if you ever kill Amber or Susan, I’m telling Evey.”

“What?”

“Seriously. Please don’t kill them.”

He rolls his eyes and sings, “You’ve gotten sooooo soft, Tiger.””

“Soft, my arse. I killed ten people for you in Switzerland.”

“Anyone can kill a stranger, Bash,” he flashes that psychotic grin.

I suddenly remember the little boy from Evelyn’s play group that Jim had kidnapped while he was flirting with Sherlock Holmes. I’d held a gun to that kid’s head a few years ago. Moriarty’s victims are usually random, because the universe is random. There’s no rhyme or reason to how he plays, and yet it’s all so neatly orchestrated, and so I can’t help but wonder if there was a reason for that one kid’s abduction and almost-murder. I ask.

“Jacob,” he answers thoughtfully. “He took a soft toy from her at playgroup. Because his mummy was there, and because he wasn’t technically in her playgroup, the teacher didn’t correct him. So, I thought I’d teach him a lesson. Or, you know, just be rid of him.”

“So, did he learn?”

“Probably not. But his flat complex was rather mysteriously burnt to the ground shortly thereafter.” He grins at me. “Poor mummy and daddy didn’t survive. He’s been placed in a therapeutic facility for boys who set fires.”

I snort. I should feel bad for the kiddo, but I don’t. Don’t fuck with our daughter. There’s still no guarantee that that will keep you safe, but it certainly improves your chances. “Jim, you can’t just kill people because you don’t like their kids.”

“We both know that’s not true,” he chuckles back. “That’s not the first round of parents or kids I’ve disposed of because they were annoying.”

“Well, you can’t do that now.”

“I know I can’t do that now.”

“Just reminding you.”

“Keep in mind that we did rob a bank together, Tiger.” The light of his phone illuminates his face. I can’t help but think he’s blushing a little. “It’s almost 10:00. They’ve got to get those kids to bed soon. If they’ve any sanity in their pitiful little heads, they know they can’t keep the kids up much longer.”

“Yeah, Evey’s yawned a few times that I’ve seen.”

“She’s getting a little fussy. She hit that ginger lad when Amber wasn’t looking.”

“So, are we okay with that?”

“What?”

“Her hitting people?”

“Nah. She has her daddies to do that at this point. Though, before she goes to kindergarten, I want you to teach her how to fight.”

I shake my head. “Maybe when she’s ten. It might look a little suspicious if she’s kicking other people in the throat at five.” The kids, all yawning and rubbing their eyes, are being herded out of the living room now. Susan closes the blinds, robbing Jim of his only connection to his daughter. I feel him tense. “Hey,” I say softly, wrapping my arm around his shoulder, “hey, she’s fine. They’re probably getting ready for bed.”

“What if they’ve got some kiddie porn ring thing happening?”

“They don’t, Jim.”

“How do you know?”

“Because if they did, you would know about it.”

He scowls, huffing impatiently.

I challenge his annoyance. “Tell me you haven’t broken into their house and surveyed the entire area from basement to rooftop.” He laughs. “Seriously, tell me you haven’t routinely checked their emails and text messages. Tell me that you, James Moriarty, Consulting Criminal, Professor of the Underground, haven’t checked their banking statements, their porn habits, their voting records.”

He looks down, feigning bashfulness. “Pillow talk in the treehouse? Flatterer.” The lights behind the blinds go out. Jim growls out, “That was not enough time for the children to properly brush their teeth.”

The light flickers on again. Jim’s whole being starts to vibrate with apprehension. The light goes off again, and he exhales loudly. Shadows behind the blinds cease to move. I wasn’t aware of it before, but grasshoppers are chirping loudly alongside a chorus of frogs. Yellow dots of firefly light appear and reappear throughout the neighborhood. The hot night air is heavy with humidity. The world has taken on an earthy smell. Everything is quiet.  

I realize how close I am to Jim.  I’m aware of the points where our bodies are touching.   _ Knees, arms, shoulders.   _ I can smell his overly expensive cologne or shampoo or whatever it is.  Something lemony and maybe a little floral. It’s a smell I’ve come to recognize as Jim’s.  “Shall we pack it up and head home?” I ask.

Jim sighs again. He crosses his arms and pouts.

“Jesus, what's your problem now?"

“Evey’s sleeping over at their house!”

I want to beat my head against the wall. “Yes, because it’s a sleepover.”

“I saved her life, that ungrateful little brat!” Despite the harshness of the words, it’s evident that he’s more hurt than angry. “And now she just wants to go off and join the Baptist Lesbians.”

“She’s not Baptist, Jim. Calm down.”

He slinks deeper into the sleeping bag so that his face is covered from the bridge of his nose downwards. “Kill them,” he whines, sounding positively pitiful.

“Come on, Jim.”

“No,” he whines, “they stole my little girl. Kill them.”

“No.”

“Yeesss!”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Jim, you’re being a child.”

He submerges his entire head beneath the sleeping bag, groaning. “You did it in Switzerland!”

“Amber and Susan haven’t kidnapped her.”

“They have!” he says petulantly. “They’ve got her in a cult.”

“James Moriarty. Get a hold of yourself. You’re a grown man.”

“I’m saaaaad,” he bleats, black eyes peering up over the edge of the cover.

“I know. Come on, let’s go home and we’ll get some snackies and then we’ll pick Evelyn up real early.”

“No,” he says, disappearing beneath the blanket again. “If she wants to stay with them, she can. I don’t want her anymore.”

I call his bluff. “Ok, then, let’s go home.” I grab the edge of his sleeping bag, tugging it back away from him. He resists with a loud whine. “Jim, I will push you out of this treehouse.”

He pulls back just as hard. “I can’t leave her again! My backstabbing little heartbreaker! She needs her Daddy! Why does she hate me?!”

“No, we aren’t doing this. We absolutely aren’t doing this.” I situate myself behind him and tug backwards, using the bag to trap his arms so he can’t get the leverage to resist. I lift him up, slinging him across my shoulders.

For a moment, he’s silent, probably from shock. Then, he says softly and evenly, “When you fall asleep, I am going to cut off your bollocks and sew them to your eyesockets, and then I’m going to shove a curtain rod so far up your arse it’ll pop out of your mouth.”

He says it like he’s listing off the shopping. I shudder. Jim is a very creepy little man. I forget that sometimes.

“You’ll feel better after some sweets,” I tell him.

“I mean it, Basher, I’m going to murder you when we get home.”

I can tell that he means it. But Jim’s very changeable. And I can probably outrun him. “It’s not my home, remember? I just sleep there sometimes,” I remind him as I situate him through the opening of the treehouse. I (sort of) accidentally knock his head against the threshold.

He doesn’t even yelp. He just says, “I’m going to shove your dick in a blender.”

I check to see if he’s bleeding. He isn’t, so I begin the descent to the ground.

There’s a click and the yard illuminates, but from the opposite side of the house. I freeze. “Oh fuck.”

The front door opens. I can hear the soft sniffles of a child. Jim squirms over my shoulders. “Evelyn? Baby?”

“Wan’ my daddy,” echoes its way over the lawn. It’s definitely Evelyn.

Jim loses his shit. He’s writhing against me, trying to free his trapped arms, almost yelling in my ear. “We have to go, Basher, we have to go. Evelyn needs me! Basher—”

And then I drop him. 

I fucking drop James Moriarty.  It’s entirely accidental, I assure you.  I would never purposely drop the father of my child out of a tree.  I scramble down the ladder, cursing and hovering over him. He is livid. He expresses as much as I give him a once-over. “I am going to murder your  _ entire _ family.” He subdues his scream when I touch the already swelling ankle. “Your nieces and your nephews and your sister and her husband . . . all of them. I’m going to feed them to alligators.”

“Can you feel this?” I tap his other foot.

He kicks me in the nose. My vision blurs for a moment, and I taste blood. “You just threw me out of a tree!”

“But are you okay?”

“No!”

“Just hang on, ok? I gotta run back to the house. I’ll be right back.”

“That’s fine,” he says sarcastically. “I’ll just wait here.”

I cross the lawns, reaching our backdoor, only to discover that it’s locked. Looking back on it, I’ll probably realize there was another solution, but for now, I kick the door open, sending all of the alarms into a frenzy. I race to the front door, waiting for the knock.

I can hear Evelyn’s sobs as they make their way up our drive. The sound absolutely shatters my heart. “Wan’ my daddy! Wan’ my daddy and my bed and my books and—”

I throw open the door, unable to wait for the knock. “Baby girl!” She runs to me and starts crying even harder. The terrible thing about being a father, in my opinion, is that my heart just shatters when she cries.  At this moment, I would give my right arm to make her feel better. “Hey, little one, hey, it’s okay. I’m here now.”

“Where’s Daddy?” she sobs, squirreling her way out of my arms to run through the house. She looks up with wide eyes. “Where’s Daddy?” she asks more frantically. “Why’re the alarms goin’ off?!”

“Hey, hey, it’s ok. Daddy’s here. We just set them before bed, and I accidentally set them off, ok?”

“Everything okay?” Susan asks, looking just as frantic as Evelyn. I touch my nose, realizing it’s still bleeding. I wipe it away.

“Yes, yes, everything is fine,” I tell her, trying to look neighborly and convincing and like I didn’t just accidentally drop a criminal mastermind out of a treehouse. “I just, er, I don’t know the codes.”

Susan’s eyes darken.  “Where’s Addison?”

“He’s, uh, he’s at the store.”

“I thought he was in bed?” she demands, taking a step closer to me.

“He is.  He went to the store and then he went to bed.” God, are American lesbians always this protective? Or is this a universal trait?

“I thought you were going to be out of town?” Not bothering to hide her suspicion, she reaches for Evelyn. I cut her off. 

“I was. But then we thought, you know, damn, it’s been a really long time since me and Addi had a night together. So I moved some things around.”

“So why did he go to the store if you were having a date night?”

“I don’t know, Susan!” I’m getting exasperated with the alarms going off and Jim’s neighbor interrogating me. “To get ice cream probably!”

Evelyn’s tears instantly vanish. “Yay! Ice cream for me!”

Susan shakes her head. “I’m not comfortable leaving Evelyn until I see Addison.”

I’m going to kill this woman. “Jesus, lady, just leave! I’m her papa!”

“I’m calling the police.” She pulls out her mobile phone.

I reach for her but immediately stop myself when I think about how much trouble that could cause. Strangling a woman, even a bitchy one, is generally frowned upon world-wide.  “Listen, Susan.” I shepherd her outside and shut the door, Evelyn still on the other side. The alarms are muffled now, and I can lie a little better. “We’re playing a game, if you catch my drift. It’s going to take a good half hour to get him down, and this is definitely not something we want to expose Evey to, understand?”

Susan raises an eyebrow.

“The alarms set the mood,” I lie.

She rolls her shoulders, her protective stance fading. “I doubt that bondage and that stuff is good for his condition.”

“Condition?! Oh, the PTSD. Yeah, no. . . it’s, er, it’s immersive. . . the doctor said it’s fine as long as there’s, you know, safe words and, you know, frankly, I’m not comfortable discussing this with you. I like you, you’re sweet, but this, this is family stuff, and you need to go home.”

She stares me down. After a long awkward moment, she says, “I’ll swing by tomorrow to check on Evelyn and Addison.” With that, she turns and walks away.

“I’m not an abusive husband!” I yell back. “Bitch.”

Inside, Evelyn is jumping at the alarm keypad. “Pick me up Tiger Papa! Pick me up!”

“What do you say?”

“Please pick me up!” She doesn’t need to repeat it because I’m desperate for the alarms to stop. I lift her off the ground so she can punch in the numbers and then set her back down. “Ice cream!”

“Uh, no, not right now.”

“Yes! Right now!”

“Go put your suitcase in your room, okay? I gotta go take care of something.”

“Ice cream first.”

“No, miss, we’re putting your things away first. And then maybe some ice cream if Daddy says it’s okay.”

Her shoulders sag in that exaggerated way of children mimicking reactions they see. She starts to lug her suitcase up the steps, and when she’s out of sight, I dash out the backdoor and across the lawn to Jim.

He is staring blankly at the stars. The only acknowledgement of my presence is the statement, “I’ve pierced a lung.”

“No, you haven’t.” I kneel down to take another look at that ankle. I lift the leg of his pyjama bottoms to see a purpling mess of skin, but no blood. “You’ve sprained your ankle.”

“I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU FUCKING THREW ME OUT OF A TREE!” he screams.

I cover his mouth, shushing him violently. “What the fuck is wrong with you? God, shut up!” I don’t move, waiting for the lights in the house to come on or for Susan to come back out and give me the third degree. Nothing happens. “All right.  _ Quietly _ , let’s get back home.” I help him get to his feet, eager to see if he can put any weight on the ankle. I doubt it’s broken, but I could be wrong.

“How’s Evey?” He hisses in pain when he presses his foot to the ground. Nonetheless, he manages to take a step.

I duck beneath his arm so that I can shoulder some of his weight. “She misses you.” At this range, I can smell the lavendar detergent on his clothes.  It smells like the sheets on my bed in the playroom. Warm and soothing. We limp along back to the house. He’s desperate to see his little girl, so he’s moving faster than his ankle wants to allow for.

“Good. She better miss me. I’m a great father,” he mumbles. “Watched that second  _ Aladdin _ film several times when she had the flu. It’s a terrible movie. But I did it. For her.”

“I know, Jim.”

“Don’t patronize me, you great oaf.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are, I can hear it in your tone!”

“Stop talking! God, you are terrible at being sneaky.”

Evey seems to forget about the ice cream when she sees her Daddy limping. “Oh no!” she gasps. “Daddy, what store did you go to?”

“No, sweetheart, the store didn’t do this to me. Papa Tiger did.”

I swat the back of his head. “Don’t tell her that.”

“Don’t hit Daddy!” Evelyn shouts to me. Her eyes are filled with worry. She runs over to tackle Jim, and he yelps. “Daddy, are you all right?”

He groans as he lifts her into his free arm. The other is still draped over my shoulders as I support/carry him to the sofa. “No. But seeing you makes me feel better,” he says with a smile.

As if he hadn’t been threatening to abandon her less than fifteen minutes ago.

Once I get the two settled on the sofa, Evelyn cuddles up beside him, taking his hand in hers and counting his fingers. He kisses the top of her head, beaming like the sun. “I missed you, Evey.”

“Missed you, too, Daddy.”

“Did you have fun?”

She sighs dramatically. “Ms Amber and Ms Susan don’t have Play-Doh.”

“What a travesty!”

“Yeah and no television!”

“No!” he says, feigning shock.

“Yes!” she says, matching his energy.

“How did you ever survive?”

“I escaped!”

“Did you?”

“Yes. I escaped.”

“Of course you did. My clever little lady.”

I roll my eyes. “That is not what happened. Susan brought you over!”

“Shut up, Sebastian,” Jim orders, hurling a pillow at me. “It’s important that she creates her own narrative in dealing with stressful situations. She has to empower herself.”

Evelyn nods at me, her eyes dark. “Yeah, Papa!” She tugs at Jim’s shirt. “Daddy, Papa said I could have ice cream.”

_ That lying little brat _ .  “I did not.  I said we’d ask your daddy.”

“No ma’am.”

“Please?”

“No ma’am. It is almost eleven. You should’ve been in bed a long time ago.”

“I’m not very sleepy anymore.”

“Yes, but you’re going to be an absolute nightmare tomorrow.”

“No,” she laughs.

Jim cuddles her closer, his eyes simultaneously soft and laser-focused on her. Her kisses her forehead again. “I love you, princess. _A leanbh_. I was so worried about you.”

Evelyn uses this to her advantage. “Can I have one ice cream?”

Jim chuckles softly. “One ice cream.”

“But a big one?”

“A medium-sized one.” He tears his gaze away and barks at me, “Papa Tiger, go get us some ice cream.”

“You’re both incredibly spoiled.”  Nonetheless, I’m already on my feet, heading to the kitchen.

“We’ve had a tough night!” he shoots back. “We deserve ice cream! And bring me some Vicodin. I’m about to die of the agony of my BROKEN ANKLE.”

“It’s not broken, you big baby!”

“Wan’ me to kiss it better, Daddy?”

“Would you, sweetheart? I think that might help.” I’m in the kitchen with my back to the living room, so I can’t see what’s happening, but I hear Jim screech in anguish. “Damn it, no, don’t do that. Fuck. Ow!”

Evelyn laughs, clapping her hands. “Fuck!” she repeats.

“Evelyn!” Jim and I both shout in unison.

While he tells her about “adult words” and other things she shouldn’t say, such as “bomb,” I prepare two small bowls of chocolate chip ice cream. I grab some ice packs out of the freezer as well and some cellophane to wrap Jim’s ankle.

After Jim’s taken the painkillers, and I’ve propped his leg up on the sofa, he and Evelyn begin to doze. Her little head rests on his chest, his arm still wrapped around her. It’s a sweet image, the two of them. I grab his comforter from his bed and cover the two of them up, doing my best to tuck them in without waking them.

I should go sleep in my bed in the playroom, I know. There’s no reason to sleep downstairs. There’s not even a free sofa to sleep on. But I want to be with my makeshift family. I want to keep my Jim out of pain and my Evelyn safe and sound. I want to hear their breathing as they sleep and see their soft silhouettes rise and sink as they inhale and exhale. I want to be with them. They are apart of who I am now, I realize. It’s a terrifying realization but also one that brings me a great deal of comfort.

This is who I am now. Sebastian Moran. Ex-Colonel. Womanizer. Gambler. Murderer. Papa. And. . . whatever I am to Jim.

Gay panic edges in, but I subdue it. Sleeping in the same room as my daughter’s father doesn’t make me homosexual. Right? This is just my family. It’s not sexual, my relationship with Jim. I like women. I like cunts. I like breasts and butts and full lips and the curve of hips. Jim doesn’t have these. And I don’t think of Jim like that. Right?

Right.

I shake my head, grab a quilt from the linen closet, and curl up in the armchair to sleep. It’s only in the morning that I remember I have a voicemail from Anisa.


	21. Leaves

_ September 2013 | Basher’s POV _

Why the world always seems quieter when it’s snowing, I’ll never know. Maybe it’s legitimately quieter. Maybe it’s just my brain projecting the silence onto my surroundings. Regardless, right now, at this moment, it’s blissfully quiet. The flames in the fireplace have mostly subsided, and only the occasional crackle echoes through the cabin.

It’s been a fucking great day. I got a clear cut shot at a “truth in journalism” activist while he drank his coffee on the balcony of his hotel room, and the round slipped silently through his skull so fast, I was half-way through packing up before blood was even visible on his skin. Last I heard, his body hadn’t even been discovered yet. With Juric out of the picture, nothing can stop Magsy from owning the newspaper market in Croatia. (Poor bastard was in Australia for a lecture at the University of Adelaide.)

Some shots are just beautiful. They go off perfectly. The wind is steady while the bullet glides through the air, the silencer keeps the echo to a minimum, and the victim goes down like s/he’s sliding on silk. It’s gorgeous. And the blood splatter . . . let me tell you, some of my most perfect shots have had the most elegant patterns. Juric’s blood had glided through the air onto the white chair opposite him like raindrops, landing in perfectly round circles.

After work, I met Anisa at a casino.  (I know, I know, not many johns bring their prostitutes on cross-continental business trips, but she's always wanted to go to Australia, and I can't say no to that face.)  We won $850,000. I don’t know what the conversion would be between Australian dollars and pounds Stirling, but I know for certain that it’s nothing to sneeze at. 

And now, I’m in Devonport, Tasmania, lying here beside the sexiest woman I know, the cabin air still heavy with the smell of sex and firewood. Normally, I hate the cold and the snow, but this is heaven, bundled up in warm, heavy blankets watching the snow fall while Ani clings to me for heat. She’d been less than thrilled about the lack of electricity, but who was going to turn down the chance to fuck for pay in an isolated little cabin?

Long story short,  _ this _ is a perfect moment.

And yet, I can’t shake this sort of grey feeling hanging over me. 

It’s my birthday. Or yesterday was my birthday. I have no idea what time it is.  Do I play it by Australian Eastern Standard Time or by British Summer Time?  Regardless of what time it really is, and ignoring that time isn't real, I'm off the clock for the next few days, and I’m spending it with someone whose affections I pay for.

Staring at the red smouldering coals, I can’t help but wonder about her family. Does she have one? Why isn’t she ever with them? Do her clients drag her away from them? When is  _ her _ birthday? Why, after six years, do I know nothing about her? Does she ever spend time with her family? Friends? Maybe. . . maybe I'm all she has.

“If you weren’t here,” I pause, taking a long drag of my cig, the first in a few years, “where would you be right now?”

She exhales a series of smoke rings before answering. “Probably with that weird froggy bloke we met at the casino.”

“Gross.”

“I’ve worked a lot worse.”

“I mean, if I hadn’t brought you here, if you were still in Greenwich, right now, where would you be?”

She shrugs, flicking her ashes at my chest. “Working, I guess.”

“But, like, what do you do to celebrate special occasions? Like your birthday? Or Christmas?”

“I work, Basher.”

“Really? You don’t celebrate the holidays with your family ever?”

She snorts. “Oh my god, are you serious right now?”

“Yes, I’m serious.”

“Tiger, come on now.” She sits up, the sheet falling to expose those perfect breasts, and looks me dead in the eyes with a condescending smile. “You know when I’m in the highest demand? The holidays.”

The answer stings.  “Really?”

“Yeah,” she answers as if it’s the most obvious information in the world. “People get all emotional, they wanna feel like they’re not alone, like they haven’t fucked up their lives. Like eighty percent of my job is just trying to ease someone’s guilt and loneliness.”

“Why not be, I don’t know, like a counselor or something?”

She takes a long drag, annoyed with my line of questioning. “Because I like fucking, Basher. You can’t sleep with patients. Or you’re not supposed to.”

I let that settle over me. People use her for company, she uses them for money. Four years ago, I thought I might marry this woman.

And now, I just . . . I think . . . I want to be with my little makeshift family in Texas. I want to share my birthday with my little girl and her emotionally unstable father. I want to tell Jim about how beautiful Juric’s death was. I want to help Evelyn decide which Princess Superhero she wants to be for Halloween. I want to start a bonfire while Jim holds Evey at a safe distance.   I bet I could talk Jim into letting her help me. She could light the kindling, something that won't burn too hot. She loves to do things by herself. She loves to be hands-on. Sometimes that stresses Jim out. Like when he chaperoned her school trip to the Serpentarium.

“Do you ever see your family?”

Anisa shrugs again, her annoyance growing. “Sometimes. Jesus, Bash, what is this?”  She pulls the sheet up over her chest, like covering her chest will cover her personal life.

I have no idea.  Truly. “Nothing.”

“Is this Catholic guilt? Or are you doing the whole ‘let me save you from this life’ bit?”

“No. No, you’re great at what you do, babe.”  Electricity crackles between us as I stroke her arm, eager for the sheet to fall again, eager to have her back against me.  “I’m just thinking that you should maybe, I don’t know, be with your family sometimes.”  

She cocks an eyebrow. “Okay, it's your birthday. Are you with your family?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?”

Once more, I have no idea.

I don’t know. I don’t know anything. And the panic that comes with not-knowing is snowballing, catching more and more momentum. I don’t know who I am right here. Anisa doesn’t know who I am. Carrie has made it clear that she doesn’t want to know me. Magnussen doesn’t care about who I am.

But Evelyn knows me. Jim knows me.

My breath catches in my chest the realization slams into me that I would die for Jim. That I’d protect him at all costs. My heart starts pounding. I wonder if my love still extends only to Evelyn now or if it’s reach has expanded.

I feel unpleasantly hot all over. The back of my neck feels prickly with the heat of my discomfort. I can’t be in love with James Moriarty. We’re friends. We’re best friends. Jesus, when did I become a fourteen-year-old girl?

“You should spend more time with your family. I should be with my family right now.” I roll over, bringing Anisa's chest flush to mine. God, she’s beautiful and touching her makes me feel vibrant and alive. Her nipples pressed against my chest increases the bloodflow to my groin. I don’t want to leave her. I don’t want to leave this cozy little cabin out in the middle of Australian Nowhere. I want to fuck Anisa. I want to finish off this prosecco.

I want to hold Evelyn. I want to listen to Jim read to her about clouds and bugs and outer space and whales before she goes to sleep. I want to sleep in my pitiful little twin-sized bed in the playroom so that I can wake up to the feeling of Evelyn tap-counting my fingers.

I want to tell Jim about the casino. I want to stop him from yelling at the neighbors.

And then, all of the panic solidifies into one crystal clear thought.

_ I haven’t been to my own flat in six months. _

I’ve been bouncing from hotel room to hotel room to Jim’s house to hotel room to Anisa’s place, and I haven’t even realized it. I haven’t missed it.

I have a home. It’s not here.

Six months. I’ve been making detour flights to Texas for six months.

I can’t breathe.

_ This is not who I am. _

_ This isn’t my home. _

Anisa’s staring at me. I kiss those perfect pouty red lips for what I realize is likely the very last time. I have to make it count. I may never kiss a woman again. She purrs against my mouth. “Time for round two?”

I nuzzle against her, hesitating.  Is it cheating if I haven’t confessed to Jim that I might-- _might_ \--have feelings for him?  Meh. What’s one more roll in the hay before I give up my life as a bachelor forever?

~~

I have a lot of time to think on the train from Melbourne to Sydney. I have even more time to think on the flight from Sydney to New York City.

I think about the first time I ever saw Jim, face-to-face.

_ I had just checked into my hotel room in Seoul, South Korea, hadn’t even turned on the lights, when a voice in the dark lilted, “How comfortable are you removing vital organs while the “donor” is still breathing?”  _

_ I drew a pistol, ready to blow whoever it was away. _

_ “Sweetheart, no need for guns. Daddy’s just here to chat.” The lights came on of their own accord. I searched for someone else in the room. No sign of another person, just the short little Irishman with a receding hairline and empty black eyes. He put his feet up on the coffee table of my hotel room and smiled pleasantly. _

_ Calling himself Daddy made the connection in my head. “You’re the Professor, eh?” I snort. “You’re a scrawny little thing, aren’t you?” I keep my pistol trained on him. _

_ “And you’re quite a big boy,” he purred. Then he leaned in closer. “Insult me again, and they’ll never find your body.” He sat back, his demeanor returning to flirtatious and unnerving. “I’d like a tea.” _

_ “I’m not your waiter.” _

_ He tsked loudly. “Oh, darling, this interview isn’t going well at all.” _

_ ”Interview? I already work for you.” _

_ ”I need a bodyguard. And someone to get their hands dirty. Well,  _ dirtier.  _ I do hate getting brain matter stains out of suits. My last chief of staff met a rather tragic ending, and I’m in the market for a new one.” _

_ It was an intriguing offer. ”What’s the pay?” _

_ He examined his empty hand. “Why do I still not have a tea?” _

_ I took his order and placed it with room service, then took a seat across from him. He was relaxed even with my pistol still pointing at his chest. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” he said. “Very impressive resume, by the way. I’ve been trying to break into the exotic fur trade for a year now with no luck. Hopefully, you can be of assistance in that regard. Assuming you’re offered the job.” Something in that tranquil smile told me that I would die if I wasn’t. Either I exited this room in the position of The Professor’s chief of staff or in a bodybag in a few days. _

_ ”I didn’t trade,” I warned him. “I just sold to the traders.” _

_ ”And you did your own killing, too. So, you can outsmart an animal, at least. Tell me, am I paying for this room or is Daddy Dearest?” _

_ My blood ran cold. “What?” _

_ ”Your Daddy. Augustus Moran, UK ambassador to India. Alcoholic, philanderer, child abuser.” _

_ "Get out,” I breathed. _

_ His grin broadened. “That scar behind your ear,” he said, his tone completely conversational, “it’s not from a prostitute in Liverpool. Daddy branded you, didn’t he? My, my, whatever did little Sebbie do?” His eyes darkened further. “Was it about the kittens? The ones you couldn’t save from the storm drain?” He leaned forward, his head pressing against the business end of my pistol. His voice was deeper, hollow now. “Or was it because you didn’t smile pretty for the cameras? Senator Warren was quite upset, wasn’t she?” _

_ I couldn’t breathe. No one knew about that. Augustus had cleared it up, he promised. He’d said the senator had destroyed the photographs to avoid going to prison. God, I was so little . . . I grabbed the sick fuck by the collar, pressing the weapon harder against his skull. I had nothing to say, of course. I couldn’t speak. _

_ The Professor just laughed. “Touchy subject, eh? Well, it was just the one time. For the good of the country and all that.” _

“It’s just this one time,” Augustus had said to seven-year-old Sebastian. “Do it for the good of the empire, son. Stop crying.”

_ "I don’t need your fucking job,” I growled at the intruder, pressing the gun harder against his skull. I don’t know why I didn’t pull the trigger then.  Could've saved myself a lot of headache by ending him there. _

_ "As much as I like it rough, sweetheart, I can’t have barrel indentations on my forehead. Bruises on the face are bad for business.” He made no move to pull away from the weapon. “You’re such a perfect specimen of Western masculinity, it’d be a shame to kill you before I even have the chance to maim you properly.” He reached with his gloved hand to stroke my face. “And for someone with your looks, pussycat, I have a special method of execution. I do appreciate a beautiful corpse.” _

That man, the Professor, was one in the same as the man, Jim, who had cried in a treehouse about Baptist lesbians stealing his daughter. My daughter. The man who taunted me about the abuse I’d endured as a boy was the same one that cried on my shoulder when Evelyn got her booster shots.

Reflecting on it, I realize that Jim’s always had a little crush on me. I think for a while I was just his pretty pet sniper that kept his enemies at bay or put them in the ground. I think that changed the night he dropped Evelyn off at my place. He’d trusted me to watch his little girl. When he was abducted, he trusted that I would come to his baby’s aid. When she was taken, he knew that I come for both of them. When he moved to the States, he’d bought a bed for me, knowing that I would be back.

Moriarty and Jim, somehow one in the same, trusted me. Was it possible that he maybe loved me? Did I even really love him?

I think about the time he shot at me in his pants. The image doesn’t appeal to me.  Certainly doesn’t get the blood pumping the way a curvy silhouette does. Flat arse, flat chest, small bulge in the crotch, the line of him hard and straight. And I could certainly do without the chest hairs, however sparse they were. I couldn’t be in love with someone I wasn’t attracted to, right? Especially not someone like Moriarty.

And yet, touching him felt right. Not earth-shattering, not revolutionary, just simple and sweet, like adding a dash of honey to tea. I’d touched his shoulder at Evelyn’s baptism. I’d carried him to the sofa the night he fell from the treehouse. I’d kissed his cheek in front of his student.

And. . . he’d hugged me in Switzerland. Granted, Evelyn had been kidnapped, and he’d been trying to tell me something, but it had happened. There had been soft or instructional touches between the two of us over the past few years. None of them had felt wrong. Not particularly sexual, either, but not wrong.

I suppose I could focus on those long eyelashes and large eyes. He has slender fingers like a woman and a plump lower lip. But it feels wrong to focus on what could be feminine features of James Moriarty, because if I do love him, and I think I do, I love him as who he is, as a man.

Do I really love him? Or do I just love that he loves Evelyn?

Maybe it _ is _ just a friendship love. After all, what I feel for him is drastically different than what I felt for previous girlfriends. Maybe?

I’ve never been very good at pinpointing the specifics of my feelings. It’s always just a vague idea of what’s happening internally.

~~

It’s three days after my birthday when I finally arrive at the little house in the suburbs of Galveston. No bonfires now, no celebrations. But it’s okay. I’ll be here for future ones.

Jim hasn’t bothered to lock the door, so I walk right in. A warm, salty-sweet smell greets me, followed closely by Evelyn’s cheering and tackling me. She really does get bigger every time I see her. I squeeze her tightly, peppering kisses along her forehead.

“Soon you’ll be knocking me over, miss,” I tell her.

She cackles. “Yep. I’mma grow through the roof.”

“I don’t think Daddy will be happy about that.”

“You can fix it,” she says confidently.

“If it comes to that, I sure will.”

I set her down and look up to see Jim leaning on the sofa, arms crossed, expression one of feigned annoyance. “Very rude to drop by unannounced.  I hope you had a snack on the plane. There may not be enough stew for you once Evey’s finished.” His brow furrows as he studies my face. “Something the matter?”

I have a feeling I’m about to get my teeth knocked in. I scratch the back of my neck. Jim is staring at me, trying to read me.

I take a few steps closer to him, locking my eyes on his. Realization crosses his face, and he doesn’t move. He knows what I’m about to do. He hasn’t withdrawn.

My heart is beating like crazy in my chest. It’s making my head ache. My palms are sweaty from how tightly my fists have been clenched for most of the drive here.

_ Just do it. _

I put my hand on the back of his neck, inching myself closer. His eyes are wider now, his lips just barely parted. He hasn’t moved otherwise.

I can smell his cologne now, and the lingering scent of onions on his hands as well as the green apple dish soap he’s tried to wash it away with. It’s in sharp contrast to the usual scents I catch when I’m this close to someone. If it’s a victim, you can smell the fear. If it’s a lover, it’s usually vanilla or something florally.

The world is silent again, the way it was silent in that cabin with Anisa.  Except something feels different. Something feels familiar. Like home.

I lick my lips, realizing how ridiculously dry my mouth is. I start to say something. “Um. . .”

But then I take the plunge. I duck down to press my lips against his. A small, chaste kiss, one he can escape easily, one I can withdraw from quickly. A soft, underwhelming kiss that feels right and comfortable and strange and maybe a little repulsive.

Nothing about him tastes or smells or feels feminine. I feel virtually nothing in terms of arousal. Nonetheless, it feels right, like a puzzle piece fitting together with another one. It’s not a dramatic feeling, it’s not a  _ Princess Bride _ -level kiss that people write stories about; but it’s a deep feeling, one that anchors itself into the depths of my soul. I wonder if I’ll have to go to confession, or if this is something God can overlook.

_ Love covers a multitude of sins. . . _

I’m home.

This is my family.

The world is silent, and I’m where I need to be.

“Ewww!” Evelyn squeals, covering her eyes. “Cooties!”

Jim steps back the tiniest bit. “What the hell was that?” he asks.

I shrug. “No idea.”  He licks his lips, his black eyes still wide.  “I gave Anisa about half a million quid. It was in Australian dollars, though, so she'll lose some in the conversion.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I told her to go to business school. She’d make a killing as a madam, working only half as much.”

“Why?” he asks again.

“I don’t know. I just thought she needed to be with her family more.”

He chuckles, patting my face. “You’re an idiot, Basher.  Go set the table.”


	22. Rainy Days

_ September 2013 | Basher’s POV _

It’s a rainy day, so we’re driving Evelyn to school. Jim is in the passenger seat, plotting bake sale mishaps for other daycares or playing chess on his phone.

It’s relatively quiet until Evelyn asks, “Daddy, if you were a Disney Princess, who would you be?”

Jim sighs, seriously considering the question. “Ariel.”

“Makes sense.” I side-eye him. “Saw a black-haired guy one time, fell head over heels, and stalked him relentlessly,” I say softly so Evelyn can’t hear. Then I add, “You hoard stuff and like sparkly things.”

Jim glares at me. “Shut up, Basher. I like to swim. That makes you Flounder.”

“The fish?”

“Yes. The blond, gay best friend.”

“You’re such a di--jerk. I’m not gay.” I look back at Evelyn in the rearview mirror. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Papa, what about you?”

“Daddy just said I’m Flounder.”

“But if you were a Princess. . .”

“I’m not a girl.”

Evelyn huffs, pinching the bridge of her nose the way Jim does when he’s fed up with stupid questions. “Well, you're also notta fish! You gotta follow the parameters of the question.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. What’s Aladdin’s girlfriend’s name?”

“Jasmine.”

“Her, I guess.”

“Because you ran away from a wealthy home and got caught up working with a streetrat?” Jim lowers his voice. “Or because you’re always running around in so few clothes?” He motions to the vest and shorts I’m wearing.

I scowl at him. “I was working out before the rain came. No, I’m Jasmine because I like the heat. It gets pretty hot in parts of Iran. It's great. And she has a tiger.”

Jim rolls his eyes at me. “Who would you be, angel?”

“Tiana.”

“Why Tiana?”

“Because she’s the boss.”

Jim beams proudly. “That’s my girl.”


	23. Distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sister's getting married this weekend, and there's a lot of emotions that go with that, so, hey, if you wanna leave a comment or a word of encouragement, I appreciate affirmation from internet strangers. 
> 
> (I'm literally a hot mess. I haven't been able to breathe properly in weeks. Thanks for nothing, ANXIETY DISORDER.)

_ October 2013 | Jim’s POV _

I’m not calling this a relationship; Basher and I are not a “couple.”

He kisses me. He touches me. He pulls me into his lap for a cuddle. But only after I’ve reminded him that we’re . . . that he made the physical indications that he wanted a relationship.

You see, I’ve seen him with women, his attraction to them. And “attraction” is very much the accurate descriptor. He encroaches on their spaces, finds ways and reasons to touch their shoulders, the smalls of their backs, their waists, places little kisses here and there—it’s magnetic. Basher is  _ drawn _ to them. He can’t keep away from them, can’t keep his hands to himself. He stares at their breasts, their butts, their lips, their eyes. He appreciates every aspect of their forms, even the hideous ones, and his gaze makes it obvious.

And the women love him in return. They love his arrogant brand of neediness, his uncontrollable desire to touch and own and have, that unbridled masculinity that’s confident and crass and oh-so-charming.

There is no such thing as “space” between Basher and a woman.

But there is between us.

It doesn’t hurt.

We’re not a couple.

So why do I find myself reaching out to touch him?

Because I keep finding excuses to do just that—touch him. My foot grazes against his at the dinner table, or I brush my hand against his as we’re walking Evelyn to the park, or I’ll inconspicuously tap my knee against his while we’re sitting on the sofa. And it’s like he remembers; he remembers that he kissed me first, that he made the physical indication that he wanted to be an “item,” even if we haven’t discussed it.

One single point of contact, and he  _ tries _ . He tries to want me, to be attracted to me. After I remind him, he wraps his arms around my shoulder and squeezes me tight. He pulls me into his lap. He kisses me. Goddamn him, he tries. But he always has to be reminded that we’re . . . together, and so, in a way, it’s like we’re not together at all.

He doesn’t treat me the way he treats a woman because those chemicals and pheromones and attractions just aren’t there.

_ So why the fuck do I keep reaching for him? _

Because there’s something addictive in those warm, safe, feel-goody chemicals when he holds me. Something about his fingers folded between mine, the intimacy of our palms touching, takes the edge off of my frustrations with the Baptist Lesbians and my students and the morons I work with. Something about his chapped lips grazing against my cheek makes the monotony of this life marginally more bearable.  Because I like the way he smells and feels and I want more of it all the time, and it’s not fucking fair that I want him so damn much, but he can’t even remember that he started this fucking affair.

I wish he’d never kissed me. I wish he’d stop coming back here, stop referring to my house as his  _ home _ . Because every time he forgets, my chest feels tight and heavy and cold like I’ve been stabbed with a goddamned icicle.

It comes to this paradoxically subtle crescendo while we’re participating in the Baptist Lesbians’ “Trunk ‘r’ Treat.” I really didn’t want to go, but I also hate the idea of Evelyn getting candy from _total_ strangers, especially after what she’s been through.

While I despise the Lesbians, I know that they love Evelyn, and they would never invite her to an event that posed a threat. I suppose, in a convoluted way, I trust them.

Baptists’ Anti-Halloween events are shockingly similar to some gay clubs I’ve been to. They’re campy and lively with loud music and there’s four or five men dressed like rhinestone cowboys. And there’s karaoke. The only difference, really, is the lack of booze and the surplus of children.

Evidently, Baptists’ also don’t believe in birth control, even if their teachings don’t explicitly say it.

Basher, dressed as John McClane, and Evelyn, dressed as a firefighter are getting their faces painted.

“We’re gonna be tigers!” Evelyn tells the two painters before she’s even taken her seat.

“What if I painted a flame on your face?” one of the (young, attractive) painters asks. “Since you’re a firefighter?”

“Um, no, we’re tigers,” Evelyn tells both of them, her tone clear that she won’t settle for anything less. She’s such a shy little girl, but once she knows what she wants, she won’t be deterred. I once thought I’d give her the world, but now I realize she’d much rather attain it on her own. She’s very independent like that.

I see Young, Attractive Painter A eying Basher’s left hand, searching for a ring. She wants to know if this child is his child or if he’s just an uncle or a family friend, but she enjoys flirtation games as much as he does, so she won’t come right out and ask him.

She’s going to flirt with the man who is NOT my boyfriend.  Right in front of me.

I’m not angry at all.

“Oh,” Young, Attractive Painter A drawls with her sickeningly saccharine Texas accent, “you’re a tiger firefighter?” she teases, eyes flitting to look at Basher.  _ Oh look at me I’m so clever, I’m painting faces at a church carnival la la la. . . _

I’ll kill her.

Basher grins, leaning lazily onto the table so that Young, Attractive Painter B can begin working on his face. I’ll shave the skin from his face while he’s sleeping.

_ Don’t offer me something if you’ll only withhold it later! _

Ooh, I do not like this side of myself. This is why Basher’s not my boyfriend, and we’re not in a relationship, and I’m not upset at all.

“I fought a tiger,” he purrs back at her. Both painters giggle.

“Really?” Young, Attractive Painter A asks in teasing disbelief.

“No, that would be illegal,” Basher laughs. His entire being is wrought with flirtation as his face is caked in orange paint. “Evey could fight a tiger, though.” He winks at his daughter. My daughter. That’s his only saving grace, really. He loves Evelyn.

Evelyn laughs. “Yeah, with a waterhose!”

“You gotta be still now, sweetie pie,” Young Attractive Painter A tells Evelyn, and I absolutely want to drag her by her bleached-blonde hair out into traffic and shove her in front of a lorry.  _ Don’t tell her what to do, bitch. _

Evelyn over-exaggerates freezing in place, making Basher laugh again. “You too, Mister Man,” Young, Attractive Painter B tells him. “Can’t have your stripes comin’ out all wonkety.”

His bloody charming crooked grin.  I will pull every single one of his teeth out of his head.  “My face is all wonkety, anyway. No worries.”

“He got scratched by a monkey,” Evey tells the painter.

“In the face?”

This is most asinine conversation on the face of the planet.

“In the,” he mouths silently the world “goddamn,” “face!”

She gasps, scandalized, grinning wildly. “Tsk, tsk, you’re in a church, Mister Man.”

_ Which is why you should stop acting like a total slut. _

She reaches out and swats playfully at his arm. I can’t kill her in front of the entire church, not without having to uproot Evelyn from her newly established life again, so I walk away. In a blind rage, I find my way to a concession booth, and of course, everything is a deep-fried combination of meat, onion and/or cheese.

Oh, why not? If I’m going to murder two or more people tonight, I’ll need the energy.

Ugh, stress-eating is not a habit I want to fall back into. Especially not in Texas, where calorie-dense and fatty foods plague the whole culinary landscape.

When it’s finally my turn to place an order, I order a Coke and a Fanta for Evelyn. Basher can get his own fucking drink, the stupid slut.

_ He _ kissed  _ me _ .

He started this.

_ Damn him. Damn me. _

He can’t . . . he can’t what? We’ve made no promises, no declarations of whatever the hell love actually is. He can’t what exactly? Play me? Why not? He owes me nothing and vice versa. He’s just a stranger who sleeps in my house sometimes. And plays with my child.  Unfortunately, I'm entirely at his mercy.  I have nothing to offer him, nothing to trap him with.

I can’t. I can’t expect anything from him.  _ Gratitude is meaningless. It is only the expectation of further favours. _ So is romance and affection and relationships as a whole. The only person in the entire world whose affection means anything is Evelyn’s and even then it’s because she’s trusts that I’ll provide and protect.

_ DON’T FUCKING TOY WITH ME, SEBASTIAN. _

I take a deep, calming breath. I take a long sip of my Coke, hoping the fizzy sugary burn will sedate whatever jealousy chemicals are being produced in my head.

I should get some wine on the drive home. Especially if Basher spends the night.

I return to the painting booth where both my ex-employee and my daughter are striped orange, white, and black and grinning like sharks.

Young, Attractive Painter A’s hand is dangerously close to Basher’s arm. My blood pressure hits the roof. My eye twitches. Something inside of me _aches_. Am I having a heart attack? Is this actual heart break? Why do people do this to themselves? Why on Earth would anyone choose to be in a position where someone could manipulate the chemicals in their brain to cause them physical pain? Is that not a prime example of an addiction? Of self-harming behavior?

“Whaja think, Daddy?” Evelyn asks me. I have to run the sounds through my head several times before they make sense as words. She grabs my hand and shakes it, eager for my affirmation that she does indeed look like a tiger. Still my gaze fixates on the virtual no-space between Basher’s skin and the Painter’s.

Basher winks at me, and my heart flutters, and I want to shove his head in that goddamned deep-fryer at the snack stand. “He doesn’t even recognize you, Evey!”

Evelyn cackles and pounces on me with a loud roar, nearly knocking the drinks out of my hand. She’s had entirely too much sugar. She’s going to be manic and then crash, and she’s so anxious when she crashes, and here I am with a sugar-filled soda.  

“Careful, Evelyn,” Basher tells her. “You don’t want to smudge the paint. Or get it on Daddy’s suit.” He grins at me.

I glare at him.

He juts his jaw at the smaller soda. “Izzat for me?”

“Absolutely not,” I answer him, cool as I possibly can.

And then . . . his rough, lean fingers are around my wrist, tugging me forward. It happens in slow motion. The heat of his hands on my wrist, the cheeky smile he flashes as he pulls me forward, the feeling that I’m going to drop the drinks.

I’m in his lap. His arm is wrapped easily around my waist, so sure of his welcome. He’s so strong and masculine and charming and  _ oh my god, I hate him _ . I hate him so much. I hate how this makes me feel. The up-and-down stomach, the blushing, all of it. It’s a waste of chemicals and body functions and it’s addictive.

It’s like he remembers, and it’s almost as painful as when he forgets.

Basher looks at the Young, Attractive Painters and says, "He's my boyfriend. We're together." His hesitation is evidence of his blatant insecurity.

“Basher.” I try to sound warning, but it comes out breathy and shy, and it’s disgusting and not who I am. He’s looking me dead in the eye. He takes the perspiring drink from my hand and takes gulp after gulp. Then he laughs, mischievous and teasing.  _ Goddamn him. If there is a God, strike him dead in this church, please. _

“Joke’s on you,” I tell him. “That’s Evelyn’s drink.”

He laughs deep in his chest and presses a kiss to my cheek, because he can’t bring himself to kiss me in public.   “What do you think? You like the tiger make-up?”

“You look ridiculous.”

“ _ ou _ look ridiculous. You’re not even wearing a costume.”

“Yes I am!”

“He’s Gomez Addams!” Evelyn tells him, snatching her drink from him. “Thank you for  _ my _ drink, Daddy.”

He smirks. “Like that’s not just some excuse to wear a suit,” he breathes against my cheek. He squeezes my waist. “Come on, I wanna do that tour of Hell. I’ve always wondered what Protestants thought Hell looked like.”

_ It looks like my life when you’re in it. _

~~

Basher’s staring at himself in the corridor mirror, admiring the paint job. He smiles blushingly when he sees that I’ve caught him.

“Like it, do you?”

“Little bit,” he says, following me back to the living room. “Feel very predatory.”

A shiver runs down my spine. I raise an eyebrow. “Pfft. You look like something from _The_ _Island of Dr. Moreau_.” I take a seat on the sofa.

He follows me. He crawls over the armrests, taking over the other two-thirds of the couch. He really does look like a tiger about to pounce. My legs feel weak, but I keep my poker face. It’s with some dishonesty and effort that he says, “And you look very handsome in your suit.”

It’s obvious that he’s trying again, trying to be attracted to me. Trying to want me the way he wanted that Young, Attractive Painter.

And that, frankly, hurts so damn much. So. Fucking. Much.

I smell the whiskey on his breath.

“Go to bed, Basher.”

He pushes his head against my shoulder the way a cat headbutts its owner. “Come on, kitten, I like it a lot better when you call me Tiger.”

_Kitten_ causes a shiver to run down my spine.  My limbs tense and I can't breathe again.   _Soft and sweet, something vulnerable.  I'm not a kitten._ “Is this some sort of furry foreplay? Because that’s not my thing, Moran.”

“You got jealous,” he rumbles. He nips at my neck. “When that girl in the Ball Pit of Hell flirted with me.”

I laugh out loud. “I didn’t even notice,” I say with absolute honestly.

“Yeah you did. You grabbed my hand.”

I don’t even remember that. “I was probably tripping on the stray balls from the pit.”

He giggles. “Tripping balls?”

“Go home, Basher, you’re drunk.”

He shakes his head. “I’m really not. I had a lot of fun tonight, kitten. And I ate so much sugar. Come here, Jim.”

I shiver again as he laps at my neck and paws at my thigh. He’s warm and giggly and boyish and charming and I just . . .

Right now this feels so good and wonderful and I want it, and that will make it all the more painful when he forgets again.

He pulls me into his lap, so that I’m straddling those gorgeous, thick, hard thighs. I see his hesitation, the second when instinct tells him to stop, tells him this is not the body he’s attracted to. He pushes through it, though, and kisses me with a drunken slowness that somehow suits the humid Halloween night.

_ Just take it while you have it. _

My self-control melts away and I grab his shirt to pull him closer. I bite his lips, his tongue, savoring the burn of whiskey in his mouth. His chest is tight and hot and firm and  _ fuck, it feels so good pressed against mine _ .

“There’s my vicious kitty-cat,” he purrs, and it takes all my strength not to moan. He pulls back to look at me. He looks ridiculous with that facepaint. It obscures his scars. I love those scars. They’re proof that the man wearing them survives no matter what.

That’s the kind of man I want fucking my throat. Splitting me apart. Whipping me until my skin is black and blue.

And yet he kisses so softly. Not necessarily shyly, just. . . unhurried because I create in him no sense of sexual urgency.

His thumbs slide beneath my trousers, tracing the lines of my hipbones, slow and gentle. Then he goes upward, stroking the space between my hips and ribs, and it’s strangely intimate. I have to focus on keeping my cock soft, because erections tend to signal the end of our games. It’s too much for him at this point, but maybe one day the concept of my cock, of my masculinity won’t be so unbearable for him.

Maybe one day he won’t have to be reminded that he kissed me first. Maybe one day, he’ll just remember.

And when I’m hot and panting and unable to control my arousal, I slide off of his lap. I’m surprised that he squeezes me to his side, unwilling to relenquish the skin-to-skin contact. “Hey, kitten,” he murmurs, dragging his wet lips behind my ear. “I think it’s customary in the States to watch a scary movie on Halloween.”

I can’t help my smile. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, let’s make out on the couch and watch scary movies like horny teengers.” He closes in on me again, cornering me against the couch. One hand slides up my shirt, running his palm over my tummy and sternum. “I’ll protect you from whatever bogeyman is in the film,” he teases.

“Do sweets often have this effect on you?”

“No, just sour ones. I ate all of Evey’s sour skittles.” His tongue traces my bottom lip and I think I can taste the acid from the candy, but that’s likely just through the power of suggestion. “Come on, let’s watch a scary movie.”

He can't handle a snogging session for too long.  Too much for him, for his heterosexuality.  Still, he's trying.  Currently, he’s spooning me. His breath is uncomfortably humid against my ear, and his body is too warm to be pressed up against me. The truth is I don’t like particularly care for snuggles. It’s such an invasion of privacy and intimacy of this sort lends itself to having to ignore flatulence and burping and whatever undesirable things the body produces.

And the human body really is disgusting.

And yet, I let him do this. I want him to remember.

He laughs as some poor bloke gets sawed in half and jumps when the murderer leaps out of the bushes. The Basher I knew through work was stoic and calculating, and this Basher is so reactive and emotional, and yet I can see both of them in the other, and so I can’t say I like one better than the other.

God, if he asked, if I thought he wouldn’t say no, I would spread my legs right now and let him take me with virtually no lubricant. I would. He’d be gentle enough. He’d provide adequate aftercare as long as I coached him. I’d ride him like a bitch in heat.

I wish just once during one of these sessions, he’d get hard. Just once, I wish he’d want me as badly as I want him.


	24. Pollination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I quite like the juxtaposition of the over-sexed heterosexual Moran thinking that his lovelife is fine and well, and he's enjoying the exploration of a same sex relationship even if it's slow and unhurried against the simultaneously repressed and sadomasochistic homosexual Moriarty pining for something more in their relationship.
> 
> Like, Basher is like, "la di da, I'm doing the whole gay thing really well," and Jim's like, "I'm gonna fucking die if you don't carve your name into my skin RIGHT NOW."

_November 2013 | Basher’s POV_

Jim’s hands are lithe, ending in thin fingers, and yet there’s something distinctly masculine about them. Maybe it's just my own confirmation bias. Maybe his hands aren't masculine or feminine because they're just hands. I can’t pretend that I’m holding a woman’s hand though, not that I would anyway. I’ve had to tell myself over and over again that if I am going to love Jim, I am going to love him as he is. No pretending or imagining or feminizing.

His fingers are long, slim, but dense. His nails are short and trim. He’s gotten back into the habit of weekly manicures. He takes Evelyn with him to the salon, and she gets superhero stickers on her fingernails.

I like holding Jim’s hand. The spaces between my fingers are stretched wider when I hold hands with him versus when I held hands with girlfriends; the contrast shouldn’t be so severe, I know, but, in my mind, it is. His hands are warmer, too. He tries to keep his skin soft and hydrated and supple, and he succeeds everywhere except his hands. For whatever reason, his hands are always a little scaly, just on the surface. The skin beneath the surface is bouncy and resilient, but the top layer is always a whisper away from being scratchy. I think it has to do with his mostly-managed hand-washing obsession.

We’ve graduated from little chaste kisses when he comes home or I come home to tongue kissing after Evelyn’s tucked in. His lips are different than a woman’s, but I can’t explain why. Maybe it’s the shape of his mouth that’s different. He tastes different, too. There’s something bitter in the skin of his lips and in the wetness of his mouth. And, inevitably, something chocolatey, but that’s not nature’s doing.

I’ve grown into it, the kissing, the touching. It was difficult at first, to be honest. The taste, the touch, his body pressed against mine--it all felt wrong initially, like my brain was trying to stop me from touching a hot stove. My first instinct was to pull away, fast, because this wasn’t what I wanted.  It still isn’t, and yet it’s enough.

Beneath instinct, though, is something else. Something in the more evolved part of my brain telling me that this is good. This is a good decision. My Jim. My family. My home. All of these things were good. It’s a difficult thing to express, being simultaneously physically repulsed and mentally aroused. The repulsion is mostly gone now, though I can’t say I enjoy our little sessions as much as Jim does, not on a visceral level. Emotionally, I do. I enjoy the intimacy and the closeness. Physically, I don’t feel the urgency. I’m okay with this most of the time.

We don’t have sex. I don’t offer, and Jim doesn’t ask. I sleep in my bed, and he sleeps in his. No morning breath. No sleep farts. No snoring. It’s not a bad little set up.

I love Jim. I think he loves me.

He leans on my shoulder while he grades papers, and I keep my arm around his shoulder when we take Evelyn to the park. It feels more natural as the weeks pass. Sometimes we share drinks, and sometimes he’ll offer me a taste of whatever’s on his fork when we go out for tea.

To my knowledge, he doesn’t see anyone else. I’m relieved. I would hate to be the only faithful party in a same-sex relationship when I’m the one who’s straight. Am I straight? If you’re raising a child with another man, kissing him goodnight and making him tea in the morning, can you still be straight?

Who knows? I should research it, but queer theory and gender studies is just . . . no. I’m a man, through and through, and I like women. I just happen to be in love with a man. Who is fucking crazy and counts my fingers when we’re curled up on the sofa.

I like this life. I like that I’ve gone from being “Papa Tiger” or “Tiger Papa” or “Papa Basher” to just “Papa” now. I like that when I leave for a job, Evelyn knows I’ll be back. I like knowing that when I get back, two loved ones will be there to greet me. I like telling Jim about the blood splatter, about the shots, about the near-misses that come with my line of work. I think he likes hearing about them.

It’s not exciting, no, but it’s comfortable. More than comfortable. It’s deeply, deeply satisfying. Like changing into dry sweat pants after a long run in the rain.

And so, when I come home from taking Evelyn to the dentist and see the front window shattered and the door wide open, I go into defense mode. “Stay here,” I tell Evelyn before I get out of the vehicle. She tries to ask questions but I tell her to be quiet. She must sense the urgency, because she obeys. (Evelyn generally doesn’t ever shut up. God, I love that little girl, even when she’s an absolute pain in my arse.)

The house is a wreck. The pillows have been ripped apart, the sofa cushions have been hurled across the room, knocking over plants and lamps and books. The windows in the living room and the kitchen have been shattered, as have all the mirrors. I see alternating droplets and streams of blood all over the house, and my heart sinks.

“Jim?!”

As I trace the trail of blood into his bedroom, I can make out the hum of a television that’s been turned on and muted. With my knife at the ready, I approach the threshold of his bedroom. “James?”

I swing around, ready to attack.

He’s standing there in the middle of the room with his back to me, his shirt sliced and bloodied, pieces of glass jutting out of his knuckles. He’s perfectly still, his gaze focused on the television.

Jim is livid. I can see it in the posture of his shoulders. He’s tight and drawn up, his body reacting to guard his core.

“Jim?” I ask again.

I don’t know why but I’m terrified to approach him. I do it anyway, but I realize I’m holding my breath. I grab his shoulder and spin him around.

He looks like absolute hell. Long red lines mark where he’s clawed at his face, and his eyes are red as fire. A vein protrudes out of his forehead. There’s another one in his neck.

“What the hell happened?”

I don’t think he even sees me. His eyes are glazed over. I realize there’s bits of glass on his lips. He tilts his head in his serpentine way and then roars, “HE’S STILL ALIVE.”

I have no idea what the fuck he’s on about. He must see that, because he spins around and unmutes the television.

“. . . last year after journalist Kitty Riley’s death. Sherlock Holmes has since been cleared of all charges of forgery, criminal misconduct, obstruction of justice, and homicide. Here we have Philip Anderson, the unofficial spokesman of the I Believe in Sherlock Holmes movement . . .”

Before I can fully grasp what’s being reported, Moriarty hurls the remote control into the plasma screen, shattering the glass and silencing the reporter. “I WILL KILL YOU.”

“I don’t under--”

He cackles darkly, swinging his fist at me. “Of course you don’t understand, you idiot!” I catch him by the wrist before those glass-riddled knuckles can clip me. “You couldn’t even follow simple orders!” He struggles out of my grasp. “You were supposed to kill John Watson!”

My temper flares.  Does he have any idea how easily I could break his fucking nose? “You need to calm the fuck down, James, or else.”

His face splits into a maniacal grin. “Or else what? You’ll punch me? Shoot me? _Skin_ me? You couldn’t even pull the trigger on Holmes’s boytoy! You useless--”

I do punch him. Not hard enough to knock him down, just enough to remind him that I’m the one with the brawn in this spat. When he turns back to me, my blood runs cold. Pure hatred is painted on Moriarty’s face, that cold brand of hatred that doesn’t kill in a fit of rage but in the dark of the night.

“Sherlock Holmes is still alive.”

“What? No he’s not. I saw him jump!”

“DID YOU SEE HIM HIT THE GROUND?”

“I. . .” I think back to that moment. I’d been on the street by the time Holmes actually jumped. As soon as I saw Jim shoot himself, I knew I had to get Evelyn. I left my perch and ran. I didn’t see Sherlock Holmes hit the ground.

Jim rears back and slaps me in the face. I feel the glass in his palm graze my cheek. “NO! YOU DIDN’T! BECAUSE YOU LEFT YOUR POST!”

“I had to get Evelyn!” I grab his wrists again, pinning them to his side.

“I had her, you fucking idiot. She’s mine! YOUR ONE JOB WAS TO MAKE SURE THAT SHERLOCK HOLMES OR HIS BUDDIES DIED!”

“I didn’t know you had Evelyn!”

“IT DOESN’T MATTER! SHE ISN’T YOUR CONCERN! WHY IS SHERLOCK HOLMES STILL ALIVE?!”

“Evelyn is mine too!”

His eyes cloud over as if he’s gone blind.  “No! No,” his voice gets soft. “Don’t think that because you get to sleep in my house and eat my food and play with my child that you mean anything at all to me. Do you understand? I will kill you without a second thought. You have this romantic image of me in your head, that we’re some domestic couple, raising a child in the suburbs, but don’t you dare forget who I am and what I’ve done.” I can see the obsession in his eyes now. He’s fixated. His brain is stuck in a loop of “KILL SHERLOCK HOLMES.” “YOU MEAN NOTHING, SEBASTIAN.”

“I mean something to Evelyn.”

“THEN FUCKING TAKE HER! TAKE HER, SHE’S ALL YOURS! I NEVER WANTED HER ANYWAY!”

I grab him by the throat, blood boiling. “Shut. Your. _Goddamn_. Mouth.”

His eyes light up when he realizes he’s hit a nerve. “I’ll kill her, Moran. Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be dead.” His voice is dreamy, like he’s just had an idea for a garden party. “John Watson was supposed to be dead. You failed. And so, your daughter--your little weed as you so affectionately call her--will pay the price. Just like old times, eh, Colonel?”

My hands are around his neck, squeezing until petechiae appear in his eyes. I think I’m going to kill him. Not as in, “Oh, I accidentally killed him in a fit,” but as in I am seriously considering choking the life out of him. Purposefully and willfully ending him.

But . . . he’s just Jim -- insane, obsessive Jim. And now the loop of his obsession has been triggered. His eyes are jet black, empty. I’d seen this with prisoners before. I’d get them good and addicted to heroine, and then when I needed something, all I had to do was deny them their fix. They’d beg and plead, and literally nothing else mattered in the world. Not family, not country, not cause. “Are you gonna do this, James?” I challenge him, my voice low. My hands still cut off his airways. “Are you gonna let Sherlock Holmes be more important than Evelyn again? Are you gonna let him dictate how you spend your time and what you think about again? Are you that weak that an addict detective can control you?”

His eyes roll around until they meet mine. He doesn’t even gasp for air. If he wasn’t slowly turning purple, I’d think my ministrations were having no effect on him. I can see the wheels spinning in his brain, trying to get traction, trying to get out of the “KILL SHERLOCK HOLMES” rut.

My fury boils over.   _Goddamn bastard._ How dare he threaten Evelyn like that? I toss him to the ground like rag doll. “Don’t move.” He stares at me like he’s never seen me before, like he’s just watching a movie, like none of this is real. I rummage around in the medicine cabinet and return a few seconds later. He hasn’t moved at all. I’m not even sure he’s breathing.

“Give me your hand,” I order. He tilts his head, challenging me. “Now, Jim.” I hold up the little white pill. I could’ve given him the lorazepam injection but giving him the option of taking it seemed like a much better choice.

He pops his mouth open, sticking out his tongue, eyes still lifeless. I put the pill on his tongue and watch him pull it back into his mouth. He dry-swallows it. I check his teeth and under his tongue to make sure he’s actually taken it.

“You have four hours to get your shit together, Jim. I’m gonna take Evelyn to the cinema and then to the bookstore, and when we get back, you better have your act together, do you understand?”

He rolls his eyes. “My act?” he smirks.

“Listen here you little bitch--”  I cut myself off. I wouldn’t treat a girlfriend this way.  I shouldn’t treat my--erm, I shouldn’t treat _him_ this way.  Not when he’s clearly in some sort of hysteria.  If I’m going to love him, I have to love him completely, not just when he’s “okay.”  With a sigh, I take his wrist, folding his fingers between my own, careful to avoid shoving glass into my skin or further into his. My voice gets softer. “Jim, you're going to clean yourself up, and the house, and when we get back, you’re going to put Evelyn to bed, you’re going to kiss her goodnight, and then you’re going to come to this bed and . . .” How do I say this? Do I want to say it? “. . . and I’ll take care of you, ok?”

Sarcasm lights up his eyes as he realizes what I mean by “take care of.” He snorts. His voice is foggy and far off, as though he’s providing commentary on the situation. “Have a magic cock, do you? You can just make this all better, eh? Pity you decided just now to use it. Perhaps you could’ve used it to stop daddy from hitting mummy.” His words cut me to the quick.

My temper flares again, and I ram his head into the wall. I think he blanks for a split second. I didn’t have enough leverage to do more damage than a knot on the back of his skull. “No,” I answer, trying to keep my voice gentle. “No . . . no, Jim, I just wanna take care of you, okay?” I cup his face, wary of hidden glass shards, and pull him in to kiss his forehead. “Do you want me to take you to hospital?”

Jim doesn’t move for a long minute. His eyes are darting back and forth, like he’s reading something. He stops abruptly and inhales loudly. He shakes his head, staring straight through me, looking defeated.

“Are you going to be able to dig out all the glass yourself?”

He takes another deep breath and lifts his hand to study it. The shards of glass and the rivulets of blood catch the light.  Even so, his hand is perfectly steady.  

“Daddy?” Evelyn calls from the hallway.

Jim’s eyes shut.  Blood drains from his face. He leans against the wall. A single tear slips down his face.

“Daddy’s not feeling well, love,” I shout back. “Go back to the car, please. We’re going to the cinema, yeah?”

“I wanna see Daddy.”

“Not right now, princess,” Jim yells hoarsely.

“You gonna be here when I get back?” I ask.

He nods.

“Can you stitch yourself up?”

He nods again.

“Both sides?”

“I’m semi-ambidextrous.”

I half-smile. I cup his face again, stroking bits of mirror from his bottom lip. He freezes the way a rabbit does when it’s spooked. His eyes meet mine. I feel like it’s the first time he’s really seen me since I arrived. I kiss him again, this time on the lips, again careful not to get cut. He doesn’t kiss me back.

As I exit the room, he says from the floor, “I would never hurt her, Sebastian. Ever.”

“If I thought you would, you’d be in the ground by now.”

~~

Evelyn wasn’t crazy about _Frozen_. I wasn’t either. On the way to the bookstore, she tells me she likes Tiana better than “the snow girl” because Tiana has a job.  Work is very important to my little lady.  The Catholic in me is proud.

Once inside, I don’t let go of Evelyn’s hand. My head knows that Jim wouldn’t hurt her, but his threats still ring in my ears, mingling with Magnussen’s. Fucking no one touches my baby.

She’s staring intently at the picture books lining the shelves. “I wanna get Daddy a book, Papa.”

“Yeah?” I kneel down beside her, still clutching her hand.

She nods her head. I’m amazed at how much more coordinated she is at four versus at three. Watching a human grow is truly bizarre. “When I’m sick he reads to me.”

“Oh? So you’re gonna read to him?” She is just amazing, really. She's so proactive and thoughtful.

She thinks about it, then shrugs.

I’m beaming at her like an idiot, but my little girl is smart as hell. “I bet you could, you know. I bet Daddy would really like it, too.”

She buries her face against my shoulder, shy. “No.”

“He would.”

“I can’t read fast.”

“You read out the film times at the cinema pretty fast.”

“Those are just numbers, Papa.”

I press a kiss to her cheek. She is so damn smart. Seriously, there’s never been a smarter kid ever in the history of the world, and if there has been, fuck them, because Evelyn is the smartest kid ever. “I bet Daddy would really like to be read to.”

She scrunches up her nose, deep in thought. Oh my God, she is so cute. She is so fucking cute, I could just rip all of my hair out. “You do it.”

I shake my head. “No. You do it.”

She turns to study my face. She suddenly looks very conflicted. “Can you read, Papa?” she asks quietly to avoid embarrassing me.

I cover my mouth to hide my laughter. “Yes, darling, I can read. I read all these emails you send me. And when you were even smaller, I used to read to you at bedtime when Daddy was gone.”

She looks back to the shelves of books, touching her chin in thought the way Jim does. “Okay, but I wanna practice first.” She says practice without the first “c.” I literally love every single thing about this child.

~~

Evelyn bursts through the door to the house before I can stop her, huddling _The Tiger Who Came to Tea_ close to her chest. She’s supposed to wait until I unbuckle her, but she never does unless we’re coming back from mass. Currently, she’s too excited about her new book and the prospect of reading it to her Daddy, especially now that she’s practiced a few times.  She may also have had a milkshake from Starbucks, but we certainly won't be telling Daddy about that.

The windows have been patched with painter’s plastic, and I don’t see any blood stains on the blinds. It’s probably safe to go in. I hope.

I follow her inside, pleased to see some kind of powdery cleaner on the carpet where Jim’s bled in the foyer and on the giant rug in the living room. He’s also mopped the hardwood floors in the living room and dining room. I don’t see blood on the walls, meaning he’s likely painted over the stains. The mirrors are all gone, as are the pillows he’d shredded and the lamps he’d shattered. The sofa and loveseat seem to be in good order, though. It doesn’t look like our living room, but it definitely resembles it.

The framed pictures of Evelyn and Jim have been reframed, too. There’s even one of her and me together holding hands at the beach. I don’t know if this is an apology or just part of Jim’s need to have certain things just so.

“Daddy!” Evelyn calls. I look into Jim’s room. He’s in his pyjamas, perched on his bed with his computer on his lap, phone by his side and his tablet at his feet. He’s self-stitched his face and arms and hands; if I wasn’t looking for evidence of his tantrum earlier, I wouldn’t have noticed the stitches. I suppose a criminal mastermind would have to be good at mending his own wounds. He doesn’t even hear her. “Daddy!” she calls again, climbing onto the bed. He startles when she tugs at his shirt. I tense up, watching his eyes adjust from the screen to real life. I suppose I still don’t trust him. “Daddy, I got you a book!”

A weak but sincere smile splays over his face. He pulls her into his lap, kissing her. “My precious little lady.”

“Stop,” she orders, swatting him away. “I’m gonna read you a bedtime story!” Jim looks a little lost at the rejection.

“Evey, I think Daddy probably needs some cuddles first, don’t you? Because he’s not feeling well?”

She looks at me then looks up at him, studying his face. “Izzat true?” she asks, suspicious.

He nods. “I could definitely do with some hugs and kisses.”

She furrows her brows and leans up to kiss him. “That’s all you get until after storytime!”

Jim weakly smiles at me. “Withholding affection already.” He scrubs his face and closes his laptop. “I’ve got to brush my teeth first.”

Evelyn bounces on the bed as Jim slinks off to the toilet. “Papa, go get changed into your ‘jamas too!”

She should say “please” and I should make her say “please” but I’m starting to feel the weight of my promise to Jim, so my Papa skills are subpar at the moment (see also: Evelyn has had entirely too much sugar right before bedtime). “Be right back,” I tell her.

In the playroom/guestroom, I fumble around in the pocket of my denims, searching for the little blue pill I’d purchased a month ago from my dealer in London. Up until Moriarty’s “death,” I’d always purchased stimulants from her. They were good for keeping victims awake while I, er, adjusted them. (That’s a good idea--maybe I’ll tell Evelyn I’m a chiropractor the next time she asks what my work is!) When the dealer asked why I needed Viagra, I told her to mind her fucking business.

Truthfully, I don’t know if this will work. I don’t know that it will keep me hard while I take care of Jim. I don’t know that I’ll be able to get it up at all. He doesn’t have the parts I like . . . but he’s Jim. My Jim.

Is it fair to him to even take this pill? Am I being deceptive?

He was a little bitch this afternoon. If he finds out and it hurts his pride that I have to take a pill to fuck him, so be it.

God, I don’t wanna do this. I think. Maybe. Maybe I do. If worse comes to worst, I can always just suck him off, right?  That sounds even worse, actually.

“Papa!” I’m changing into shorts and a tee shirt when Evelyn calls from Jim’s room. She’s impatient as hell when she gets excited. “Papa we are waiting on you!”

“Coming, love.”

~~

The sheets on Jim’s bed are sinfully soft and cool against my bare skin as I slide between them. I’ve never been here before.  I mean, when he was kidnapped a few years ago, I slept in his bed because he had such an amazing mattress, but this is different.  I’ve never been naked in his bed before, never awaited his return before. I take inventory while he’s tucking Evelyn in.

I think I’m ready. I think. I’ve brushed my teeth, taken my little blue pill, had a three-minute shower just to get rid of the grime of the day. . . and now I’m just naked in another man’s bed. Waiting.

I’m listening intently to everything he says to her. Listening for her cheerful answers. She only knows Daddy doesn’t feel well; she doesn’t seem to know that he’d been on the verge of a nervous breakdown earlier in the afternoon.

My heart is like a jackhammer, pumping blood through me in violent shockwaves. The thought of Jim’s naked body pressed against me is not arousing. He’s not fit. Anisa wasn’t particularly trim herself, but somehow even that was attractive. I just really love the female form, I guess. Trim and bony, voluptuous and curvy . . . it all works for me.

But Jim is . . . just pale and strangely built. He has toned arms but his core and pecs could do with some work. Saggy isn’t the right word, but tight definitely doesn’t come to mind either when I think of him shooting at me in his underwear.

I grin at nothing. He doesn’t have to be built though. He has me. I can be the brawn for him . . . why would he bother with toning and training when I’ll always protect him?

I find a lot of comfort in that thought. Jim’s physique doesn’t need altering because I’m his, and in that way, I’ve shaped him. I can appreciate that non-feminine body because I’ve had a hand in sculpting it.

And. And he’s my Jim. I love him.

I’m going to take care of him.

I’m ashamed to say that while the nervousness remains, a warm feeling rises up in my stomach and chest. A cozy sort of feeling. Maybe not arousing but still satisfying.

He waits outside the bedroom, staring at me. His face is unreadable.

I pat the empty space beside me. “Come to bed, kitten.”  A shiver courses through him.  I suspect he quite likes the nickname, moreso than he lets on.  Calling him that makes him the tiniest bit more malleable, softens the hard line of his jaw and his shoulders.  

He hesitates. I can’t explain it, but I instinctively know he’s debating apologizing. He doesn’t want to; he’s not actually _sorry_ for the things he said, even if he didn’t mean them, but he recognizes that normal people apologize in these situations.

I slide out of the bed. A weird feeling of sexual aggression bubbles up in my chest. I watch his eyes bounce about my body, trying to maintain eye contact while also studying everything below my neck.

I don’t know what Jim’s type is, but I would imagine I’m it. His gaze lingers sometimes when I’m cutting the grass without a shirt or if I’m still in running shorts when he gets home from work.

I smirk as he visibly swallows, eyes blacker than usual. I’ll admit, it’s nice to have his admiration. It makes me feel a little, I don’t know, sexier, I suppose.

I approach him slowly and carefully in case I’ve misread him. My hindbrain is warning me to cover my dick in case he decides to attack. I don’t. I approach him buck naked with my arms loose at my sides. “Come to bed, James,” I say, raising my arms in invitation.

He slides into my arms, his silk pyjamas slipping against my skin. It’s funny, he’s so close to me, leaning against me, but his arms don’t wrap around me. He takes a deep breath then relaxes against me.

 _Yes._ Warmth blooms across the surface of my skin. I nuzzle my cheek against the hair on top of his head.  I hold him close to me but not tight, his silk against my naked skin.  I’m home. It feels right even if the makeup of my being says it’s not. This isn’t what I want, but it’s exactly what I desire.  My Jim.

My hands come to rest on his hips. I can feel the slim hip bones on the pads of my thumbs. I keep my hold on him loose; if he’s going to be here, it’s going to be of his own accord. His eyes are deadset on mine now. His expression is still unreadable, but his heart is pounding against my bare chest.

Looking down at him, while he’s pressed against my chest like this, his cheeks tinged with pink, maybe he’s beautiful. Handsome? No, he’s beautiful. Not in a feminine way, but beautiful nonetheless.

I stroke his cheek.  “My Jim.”

Something in him snaps like a piano wire. Suddenly, he’s on me, he’s surrounding me, his arms clasping tightly around my torso, standing on his tiptoes to kiss me. His mouth is pressed so firmly against mine his stubble is tickling my cheeks. It’s instinct, I guess, that causes me lift him up, to grip his thighs so that his legs are wrapped around my waist. It all happens so fast. I’m holding him tightly against me, my tongue playing against his. He feels frantic against me. His muscles are tight, and his movements are quick and darting.

He breaks the kiss for only a moment to say, “I’m sorry” and then he’s back at it.

I give him what I hope is a comforting squeeze. I try to quiet his frantic energy with my own calm energy. There’s plenty of time for everything. Plenty of time to just enjoy this. I laugh into his mouth, then pull away. “No you’re not,” I smile at him.

He snarls at me. “Yes I am, idiot.”

“No, you’re not sorry. You didn’t mean what you said, but you’re not sorry that you said it.” I keep my tone light. I’m not fishing for sincerity; I’m telling him that I understand him, at least somewhat. He half-smiles, and I use the opportunity to kiss him again, setting a slower pace. He closes his eyes, following my lead.

“So,” I say as I trail little kisses from his mouth to his ear, “can I take you to bed?”

He shivers against me. His cock presses against my torso through his pyjamas. I think maybe I can hear a small whimper, but maybe it’s just wishful thinking.

“Is that a yes?”

His teeth sink into my shoulder, just hard and long enough to hurt. “Don’t be dim, Basher. It’s not attractive.”

I give his ear a warning nip. “You’re going to have to play nice, boss. It’s my first time.”

He shivers again, his cock twitching against me. I chuckle. This feels so easy. Having him like this feels so good and comfortable. And he’s so responsive . . . and I find that I want to explore that. I want to see how my Jim responds. I want to make my Jim feel good.

It’s sickeningly sentimental, and I don’t even care.

I carry him over to the bed and lay him down. He looks _vulnerable_ , his eyes a little cloudy and his lips wet and red and his limbs sprawled on the bed, and it triggers a predatory instinct in me. Or maybe a protective instinct, I’m not sure. Either way, this is mine.

I climb on top of him, boxing him in with my body, leaning my face against his so I can feel his hot breath quietly burst in and out of his mouth. I spread one of his thighs wider so I can feel his erection more fully. I can’t say the thought of it against me is arousing, but the thought of it existing because of what I’m doing to him is very arousing.  What a bizarre nuance.

I laugh at his eagerness when he ruts against me. “Play nice,” I tell him again. “I’m going to take good care of you, Jim.”

He groans, covering his face. “Fuck, that’s such a stupid thing to say.”

“You’re the one that’s blushing.” I smirk at him, grinding my own growing erection against thigh. “Feeling a bit bashful, are we?”

“Fuck you, Sebastian,” he growls. “Just get on with it!”

I kiss him again, slow and soft, the way I used to kiss Anisa when I was really drunk and feeling exceptionally sentimental and desperate for her love. “No rush, boss. Plenty of time.”

“Rush!” he orders. “I’ve got things to do!”

His pleas are less than convincing. And even if they were, I wouldn’t obey them. This is mine. My Jim. My chance to take care of him.

_God, please get me through this._

I move even slower, taking one of his hands into my own. “I’ve gotta warm up, boss.” I slip my free hand beneath his shirt, mapping out the skin of his back against my palm. I smirk at him again. “Recon mission.”

He slaps me with his free hand. I growl and pin his wrist over his head. “No,” I warn him, too shocked to control the momentary flash of rage. He struggles against my grip, but I don’t let up.  _Deep breaths. Calm._  My temper subsides, and I slide his shirt up to his neck, exposing the white expanse of his torso. This really is new territory for me, and I don’t go into anything without a good grasp of my surroundings.

I fold the hand I’m holding in with the hand over his head so that he can’t lash out again. His wrists are trapped in one hand. With my newly freed hand, I ghost over his chest, down to his stomach, over the clothed erection between his legs. Gooseflesh pops up across his body. I run my hand over him again, more firmly this time, focused solely on the exposed parts of him. I stroke beneath the crumpled up shirt at his neck, feeling the muscles and tendons, fascinated by his rapid pulse.

I turn my exploration downward, pressing my palm flat against his chest. This where it gets tricky. This is where the differences start to really get to me. I like breasts, regardless of size. I like the fullness of them, the weight of them. I like the sensation of nipples hardening against my tongue. I like the breathy sounds elicited from my bedmates when I discover how best to handle their breasts.

Jim doesn’t have breasts. I mean, biologically, I suppose he does, but it’s not the same. The tissue, the make-up, it’s not the same. Jim’s nipples are smaller, too, and I have very little understanding of how nerve endings in erogenous zones work. Would he even enjoy having them touched? I mean, it never really did a lot for me when Anisa licked mine.

Oh well. You’ll never know if you never try.

I thumb over a nipple, watching his face for feedback. He gasps, but I’m not sure how to interpret it. “Good?”

“Let my hands go, and I’ll tell you,” he answers, trying in vain to sound scary.

“No, you’re still slap-happy. I can see it in your eyes.” I kiss him again, still soft and slow and gentle, silently urging him to be patient, to relax. I scrape my thumbnail lightly over the little nub on his chest. He arches into it, trying to suppress his groan. I can’t not smirk at that. “Does that feel good, pretty kitten?”

He glares up at me. “Stop teasing me, Sebastian.”

“I’m not teasing.” I nip playfully at his neck. “I’m flirting.”

He rolls his eyes. He doesn’t seem to understand that his sass isn’t fooling anyone. He wants to be here, like this, and he’s enjoying it. He’s enjoying being pursued, persuaded. “Seems a bit late since you’re already in my bed.”

I thumb over his nipple again. “You’re a mouthy little fucker.”  I kiss beneath his chin.

“You’re going so sloooow,” he whines.

“Just enjoy it, Jim.”  I cup his cheek, locking my eyes on his. “I’m just enjoying you.” I nudge his cock with my knee. “I’m enjoying this.”  And that’s only a half-lie. I move downward to lave the other nipple with my tongue, slow and hard, pleased to feel it respond beneath my ministrations. He starts to say something but I lightly squeeze the hardening nipple between my teeth before he can form his first word. “Don’t stress, sweetheart. I told you, I’m going to take care of you.”

“You’re doing a bang-up job,” he mocks me.

“I am because I’m doing it my way, not your way. That’s why you’re having a fit about it; you’re not giving the orders.  But you can trust me, love. You’ve had a rough day; let me ease it a little?”

Whatever snarky comment he was about to shoot back is cut off with a loud moan when I suck his nipple into my mouth and begin a rather vicious onslaught with my teeth and tongue. Truth be told, it’s what I know. It’s what I’m comfortable with. If Jim’s got sensitive nips, then I’m gonna toy with them. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, and nipple play is one of my old tricks.

When I feel a wet spot against my stomach, when his precum has bled through his pants and pyjama bottoms, I switch to the other nipple, and he makes this frustrated broken sound that goes straight to my cock. I’m a little squicked by another man’s fluids, especially as they are being rubbed against my abdomen, but I’m able to overlook it. I quite like the effect I’m having on the criminal mastermind.  It's a bit heady, empowering.

His hands over his head still struggle against my grip, but I keep him steady. He writhes and wriggles beneath me, trying to get away from the stimulation at his chest. I stay there awhile, though, because the more I think about his cock, the more repulsed I feel. I have no idea what to do with a cock. I mean, I know what to do with _mine_ , but his. . .

I guess I should say I know _what_ to do, but not _how_ to do it.

And I’m not going anywhere near his anus tonight. And he’s not going anywhere near mine. Maybe someday in the very distant future, but currently, I’m just not at a place that my heterosexuality can tolerate penetrating or being penetrated by a male.  

Where I’m at right now, this is good. This is tolerable. Pleasing, even. Hell, I’ve got a hard-on, which is more success than I was planning on for tonight.

His hips are rutting against me, his cock jutting against my stomach, leaving trails of dampness in its wake. For me, it’s new, it’s different, very unnatural, but I did this to him. I’m doing this to him. I’m making him desperate and needy and wet.

This is mine. My Jim.  

And then, he says my name, so soft and broken and full of rage, I can’t deny him anymore.

I move from his chest to his mouth, kissing and licking at his lips. He’s been panting so much that his lips are dry. I kiss down his neck, a distraction for myself more than it is foreplay. I release his hands and slide my own into the band of his pyjama bottoms, ready to remove them. He stops me though, gripping my wrists and bringing them to his neck. “Choke me,” he breathes.  “Choke me, Tiger.”

The suggestion makes me feel a tiny bit ill.  I kiss him again. “Not tonight, sweetheart.”

“Do it!” he orders, reaching to pull my hair.

So, clearly, my little maniac Jim can’t be trusted to have his hands. “I’m not going to choke you. Or hurt you. At all. Not tonight.” I pin his hands above his head. “I’m going to take care of you.”

He lets out a roar of frustration. I can’t help but laugh, running my tongue along his bottom lip, a vain attempt to soothe him. “Shh, don’t wake Evelyn.”

“Jesus, please,” he growls, fury painted on his face. “please, Basher, I need it.”

I shush him, nuzzling against his neck. “We’re going to fuck like a proper couple. As soon as I figure out how a proper couple does this without a cunt.”

His body pulls tight, eyes blazing. “Are you _fucking_ kidding me?!” he demands.

I pet his chest, shushing him again. “I am kidding, sweetheart. I’ve done my research. I had to do something during that godawful movie.” My gaze slopes down his body, down to the bulge between his legs. “I wanted to do this right.”

“Because you fucked up the incident at St. Bart’s?” he smarts off.

Anger bubbles up again.   _Fine_ . He wants to be that way, he can. I roll off of him, sitting cross-legged beside him. I cross my arms. I’m not mad, but he’s not going to behave like that when I’m trying to be a decent boyfriend. (Jesus, _boyfriend_? No. . . Jim doesn’t have boyfriends. I certainly don’t have boyfriends.) Purposely keeping my voice and expression even, I ask, “Why are you being like this?”

He continues to lay there, frozen, not bothering to move his newly released wrists. “Baaaaashh,” he whines, closing his eyes tight. He kicks his feet like a child throwing a tantrum.

My hand on his chest, I press him down into the bed until he’s still. He keeps his eyes closed. “Am I doing something wrong?” I ask gently, drawing small circles below his sternum with my fingertips. “You’ll have to tell me, Jim, because I don’t know.”

“Choke me,” he breathes.

I shake my head. “Not happening.”

“Basher, choke me. Hurt me! Come on, you’re a fucking soldier, make me feeeeel it.” He looks up at me with wild eyes.  If I didn’t know him better, I’d say it was apprehension, but that seems like an emotion Moriarty is incapable of feeling in a bedroom situation.

“I think I did enough of that this afternoon during your little hissy fit.” My fingers trace over a series of stitches on his forearm.  It actually hurts me to see those marks. _My poor, insane kitten._ “And you’ve done pretty decent job of shredding yourself for today.” I trail down his soft skin, over the nearly completely hidden rib bones, to the band of his bottoms. I slip my index between the band and his skin, stroking the small exposed area. “Besides, it’s my job to protect you.” I deepen my voice, leaning over him, like a lion preparing to devour prey. “How on earth could I possibly find any enjoyment in hurting you?”

He groans again, gripping my face tightly and pulling me in for another frantic kiss, urging me to kiss him harder, quicker. I don’t. I withdraw until our lips are barely touching, just enough that he can’t crane his neck anymore to kiss me. “I’m going to take care of you, James.” I dip down for a short kiss. “I’m going to remove these.” The elastic band of his pants pops against his skin as I release it. “And then you’re going to spread your legs nice and wide for me, yeah?” Another peck on his lips. “And, if you’re wet enough, if you’re hard enough, and it certainly seems that you are, I’ll hold us together and grind against you. All you have to do is let me.  Is that okay?”

See, I’m an idiot and I completely forgot to have lubricant handy. It’s just generally not something I have on hand. So, pre-ejaculate and seminal fluid are going to have to do. God, I just hope I can stomach it. For Jim.

He continues to pout, but he stills his limbs and shuts his eyes.

With a smile, I lean down to kiss his lips again. Then his chin. Down his neck. To those now somewhat swollen nipples. He yelps when I nip at them, careful to toe the line between “tease with teeth” and “bite.” I let my tongue linger, getting used to the taste of him. He still smells faintly of betadine and sterilized needles, and he tastes of mild soap and salt.

“Stop teasing me!” he growls again.

“I’m not. I just like them.” I give him a wink before mouthing down his stomach.

“Good Lord, I thought I was going to have to remove my pants myself!” he grumbles as I get closer to his cock.

I laugh, situating myself between his legs to remove his pyjamas, and then his pants. Then I step off the bed to review my work.

At this distance, I can see that Jim’s entire body is flushed pink. His cock is straining against his gut. God, penises are weird. Something sort of, I don’t know, alien about them. I think I’d hoped that maybe he would be circumcised, so I wouldn’t have to deal with any smegma build-up or anything like that. Seems cleaner, I suppose. But he’s uncut, and his foreskin’s retracted behind the glans, and he's mine. Looks like he’s about to pop, poor man. His cock is straining and glistening with precum, and it’s an angry, bright red.

He spreads his thighs just like I asked, and he begins to jerk himself off, his pace obscenely fast. It’s gotta be for show; there’s no way he’s that desperate.

I reach for his wrists, pulling them down to his sides, and he whines again, grinding his hips against nothing. “Hey, hey,” I chide, “no cheating, Jim.”

Once more, he tries to wriggle out of my grip, but it’s a half-hearted effort.

“Take a deep breath. Just relax.” I think I’m speaking more to myself than to Jim now. I know what I need to do; I know what he needs me to do.

But honestly, I never thought I would ever touch anyone’s penis besides my own in my whole entire life. And it’s just so wet and sticky right now. I imagine fondling Jim’s dick would be like holding a joystick covered in dried Coke.

But I promised. I promised I would take care of him. And he certainly looks frustrated at the moment, with his eyebrows knitted above the bridge of his nose and his jaw clenched like a bear trap.

After releasing one of his wrists to free up my hand, I thumb over the underside of his cock, barely grazing over the vein. The warm, viscous fluid leaking from the tip sticks to the pad of my thumb. It’s not my favorite sensation, but I can suppress the shudder of disgust. Jim thrusts his hips upwards again, searching for friction. Impatience is painted on his face.

I bite the bullet and curl my fist around him, sliding slowly up and down the shaft, spreading wetness around the hot, red skin.

Jim humps into my fist, absolutely refusing to settle for my slower, gentler pace. God, for someone who supposedly loves chaos, he’s such a control freak. I allow him a few more thrusts, rolling my eyes, and then I pounce on him, straddling his thighs, using my weight to stop him humping like a dog. He grabs for my throat, livid that I’m denying him what he wants. I catch his hand and once more pin his hands over his head. “Jim, you’re going to have to be patient,” I tell him a little more sternly. “I swear it’ll be worth your while.”

He sighs his disbelief, rolling his eyes. “You’re not that amazing, Tiger.”

Once I’m confident that I can hold his wrists with one hand and that my weight will keep the horny bastard’s hips in place, I stroke his cheek, hooking his attention back on me. “Just like I don’t mean anything to you, right?” I’m smirking, I know I am. “Just like we’re just business associates?”

His glare darkens. He thinks I’m trying to tease a confession out of him, but really I’m just flirting. I don’t expect any grandiose proclamations of love. Hell, I don’t even expect compliments. I just like getting under his skin. That’s how I’ve always showed affection.

“I may not be amazing, but I’m a pretty fast learner,” I tell him. My hand slides down his neck, over his chest, seeking out a nipple again to tease. He jolts when I start to work the sensitive skin there. “And I did my research on frottage. Might be a little clinical, kitten, how I do this, but I think you’ll be okay. Keep in mind, you’ve got the home field advantage. Like I said, this is all new to me.  I’m a little nervous, boss.”

There’s a minute change in his position. His legs spread further apart, tilting his hips upward just a bit. Making himself more accessible. He swallows dryly.

My free hand slides down over his soft middle to the hard flesh of his cock. He gasps, hips involuntarily seeking out more contact. I give him a squeeze, stroking him once, twice with my fist.

Okay. Here we go. I take another deep breath. I’m doing this for Jim. My Jim.

I position my hips over his, lining up the underside of my cock with his, ensuring that his frenulum is touching mine. A shudder, its origin not entirely in revulsion, courses through me, my cock hardening further against the dampness of his. I wrap my fist around both of us, pressing my flesh to his, so that I can feel his pulse, his heat, his desperation.

_This is mine._

My hand glides up and down the two erections straining against one another. Jim lets out a soft keening noise that makes me grin. I learn forward to kiss him, and when he seems calmer, less explosive, I begin shallowly thrusting against him, my cock slick and sliding against his.

I don’t focus on the fact that it’s a dick I’m thrusting against--I focus on the sensation, the moisture and warmth on my cock. I focus on the sweet little gasps that are slipping from Jim’s mouth. I’m doing this to him. I’ve (at least temporarily) tamed the beast that is Jim Moriarty’s mania, and that is strangely arousing.  

I keep my thrusts slow and even, ripping every pitiful sound I can from my Jim. It’s not long before he’s wriggling against me, involuntarily this time, trying to get more. A faster pace, a tighter grip. . .

“Please,” he asks, voice soft. It’s not a plea, nor is it a demand. His eyes are screwed shut.

I grin at him, feeling pretty damn proud of myself. “I’ll give you whatever you want, Jim.” My thrusts quicken, and I tighten my grip on our cocks, swiping my thumb over the heads when they line up. “I’m all yours, boss. Whatever you want.”

Jim releases this wanton, whorish moan that makes my smile widen. I crash my lips against his, my pace and lead more forceful now, harder, but still slow. He kisses me like he’s lost, like he’s just barely hanging onto reality.

“And you’re all mine, Jim. My. Jim.” On the downward glide, I feel how his balls have tightened.

“I don’t belong to anyone,” he pants, sounding very snarky for someone who is about to orgasm.

“You do, Jim. You belong with me. With us.”

“ _With_ and _to_ are two very different prepositions, Bash--” I cut off his sass with twist of my wrist. He groans, trying to thrust against me again.

“I’ll always take care of you, kitten. No matter what.  I love you, kitten.”

He babbles something about “sentiment” even as his body tightens in preparation for climax. I work my fist over us faster now, thrusting harder against his cock, my sac bumping his. _This is mine. My Jim._

He breathes out my name. And once more. I press soft, fast kisses to his face and neck, urging him to climax. Faster. Harder. Purposeful thrusts, teasing the head of his cock with my thumb, teasing his foreskin with my index finger, nipping at his chest. . .  “Come on, kitten. Please, Jim?”

And all at once, his body is stretched taut, a silent cry on his lips as semen spurts over my first. I did this to him. I’m quite pleased with myself.

He goes limp beneath me. I release his cock, and jerk myself off, coming over his stomach. It’s not the best orgasm I’ve ever had, but I’m so relieved that I managed it. I’m so glad that I’ve made Jim feel good, at least for a while. My Jim.

I don’t think about the drying fluids on my dick. I don’t think about the fact that I just sucked on male nipples or the fact that my balls touched Jim’s.

I think about the victory of it all. I managed to make him come and then myself. I maintained my erection throughout the coupling. I was aroused by Jim’s reactions. I can do this--I can successfully be in a fulfilling relationship with a man and not be completely weirded out by his masculinity.

Maybe I _am_ gay?

I mean, I really doubt it but the entirety of what it means to be human, to be involved with another human, it’s beyond me. I’m just a sniper. I don’t wax philosophic.

I lay down beside him. I’m not eager to be touched at the moment. I’m also secretly glad that Jim is in the wet spot, and I’m not.

I listen to his breath return to normal.

He rolls over to stare at me with that intense Moriarty glare.

“What?” I ask, feeling somewhat violated with those black eyes trained on me.

“Did you take a pill?”

For a split second, I think he means birth control. Then I realize he's referring to the viagra. “Uh, yeah,” I say sheepishly. “I did.”

His face is unreadable again. “I’m simultaneously offended and flattered.” He rolls over, his back to me.

“C'mere, love.”  I roll onto my side to wrap my arm around his waist.  He swats my hand away.

“I don’t do pillow talk, Basher. Now, go sleep in your bed.”

“Hell, no.” I slip under the sheets and comforter. “You’re not kicking _me_ out after we just had sex.”  

He groans.  “Fine, but stay on your side.  I don’t enjoy post-coital cuddles.  And I’ll smother you if you snore.”

Something about that leaves me feeling cold, but I’ve got my own after-sex hang-ups to sort through.


	25. The Web

_December 2013 | Basher’s POV_

“Did you blow up my flat?” I hiss into the mobile as I kick at the rubble on the streets. The emergency vehicles are mostly gone now, save for a few police cars and a few fire engines working to put out the last flickers of flame.

Jim’s answer is sing-songy and cutesy. “Oooh, did something happen to your flat?”

“Yes, my insane boyfriend from the looks of it.”

“Boyfriend? I didn’t realize this was Dawson’s Creek. Partner sounds better.”

“‘Partner’ suggests a well-adjusted and mature relationship. ‘Boyfriend’ allows for this sort of shit.” I should be mad. I really should, but it’s just so Jim of him, how can I? “You know, if you wanted me to move in permanently, all you had to do was ask.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re practically living with me anyway.”

“Then why’d you blow up my flat?”

I hear him smack his lips. “Catharsis.”

“How much of my stuff was still in there?”

“What makes you think I had anything moved out?”

Now that _does_ make me angry. “Addison O’Neill,” I growl into the phone, not wanting to use his name just in case, “there were fucking antique rifles in there--from my great-grandfather. He hunted bloody elephants with them!”

“Antiques are ridiculous,” he says lazily. “It’s just worshipping the past.”

“I’m going to pour grape juice all over that Victorian fainting couch in your office.”

He's clearly distracted.  His voice has lost its flirtation when he says, “It’s _Edwardian_ , and you’d best stay the hell away from it. Evelyn, don’t do that. Here, come talk to Papa.”

“What’s she doing?”

“Firing her water pistol at Father Alligator. Here she is.”

“Papa, it’s snowing!”

For Christmas, Jim’s rented a quaint little cabin in Connacht in the Nephin Beg Range. Jim’s funny about housing. Whereas Magnussen likes futuristic layouts, wide spaces, smooth surfaces and white walls, Jim’s always liked closed quarters with a few simple antiques, something homey and welcoming. I don’t know if that was the case before Evelyn, but I’ve been reading about how people emulate their parents and their own upbringing. I wonder if he’s recreating his childhood environments for her in the way he chooses housing.

Maybe he just likes cozy spaces.

“Is it?” I ask, feigning surprise.

“Yes! We’re gonna build a snowman when you get back!”

Please, God, no, I hate the cold so much. “That sounds fantastic if I can make it back up the mountain.”

“But you’ll be here for Christmas, right?” She pronounces it “Kissmas.” My heart is actually melting in my chest. I can only imagine what liquid heart does to the lungs.

“Yup.”

“It’s eight days ‘til Christmas,” she warns me.

“Yes, and I’ll be there,” I assure her.

“If you’re not, Daddy’s gonna kick yer ass.”

I blink stupidly, unsure where that Texas twang came from and why she thinks for a minute that Jim could kick my arse. I hear Jim fussing in the background, telling her not to say things like that and not to say things _like that_. Then she’s bickering with him as he wrestles the phone from her and sends her to her room.

“We do not slam doors like that, madam!” Jim shouts. “She’s turning into a nightmare!”

“You’re gonna kick my ass?” I ask, putting on a (probably terrible) American accent.

“I have no idea where she heard that. God, this is my punishment for letting her spend the night at the Baptist lesbians’.”

“It’s probably just the jetlag and being away from home. You said it yourself that she doesn’t do well when her schedule is disrupted. I’ve been reading about kids with autism--”

“Basher,” he sighs, “she’s not autistic. She’s just an anxious child.”

“I don’t think it would hurt--I mean, she’s already reading, maybe she’s like that Rainman guy.”

I can practically hear Jim rolling his eyes. “Leave the medical and psychological aspects of parenting to me, Bash. And stop reading WebMD.”

“No offense, Jim, but you’re not exactly the posterboy for good mental health.”

There’s a long pause. I check the screen to make sure he hasn’t disconnected. “She’s not autistic. She’s very communicative and responds to external stimuli appropriately. She maintains eye contact, she’s not opposed to touch, she’s not repetitive in her movements or phrases. It’s just anxiety. Children like routine as it is; she just needs it more because her early life was so chaotic.”

“So, how _are_ you doing?”

He groans into the phone. “I’m finished with this asinine conversation.”

“Jim, I mean it,” I cut him off. “Are you okay?”

“I haven’t shattered the windows in the cabin or tried to claw out my eyes, so yes,” he says mildly.

“You’ll call me if things, you know, get out of control?”

I have to pull the mobile away from my ear as he roars like an annoyed adolescent into the speaker. “Yes, gawd, Sebastian!”

“Hey, don’t bitch at me; I worry about you, kitten.”  I'm sure he can hear the hesitation before the pet name.  

He’s silent again.  I worry I've upset him.  I check the screen again. He hasn’t hung up. “I’m fine. Just hurry home. Don’t forget the shopping.”

_Click._

~~

I’ve been to 221-B Baker Street before. I’ve been inside it, too, lacing it with recording devices and explosives, leaving shoes in 221-C because the Prof has a pseudo-shoe fetish. Still, it’s weird to stand across from Speedy’s, knowing that for two years the flat was empty, that the Consulting Detective who is just as mad as the Professor is actually still alive. I wonder how much of the flat has changed. Probably nothing.

My hope is that Mycroft Holmes and his Diogenes bitches are dealing with the situation in Syria and the growing unrest in Serbia--too busy to spy on little brother Holmes. I think I’ll have at least an hour or so. I may have to bypass Christmas with the family--holy fuck, I have a family--and hightail it back to Texas. Or maybe India.  Lay low for a bit after the murder.  I doubt Jim would move to India for me. Selfish prick.

Nonetheless, this needs to be done. I enter the building across the street from Holmes’ flat. I can off a shot on the third floor that will make the ballistics read like it came from the fourth--that should throw Mycy off my scent for awhile. Besides, I’m sure I’m not the only one who wants to murder Sherlock Holmes.

To my absolute astonishment, my boss, Charles Augustus Magnussen is sitting in the lobby of the hotel, henchman-less, cleaning his glasses. My heart stops. So much for visiting his brother in Denmark. . .

“Hello, little tiger.” He rises to his feet, offering his hand. “Let’s grab a bite to eat, shall we?”

I freeze. I hate fucking touching him--he’s so sweaty, and I feel like I can never wash his residue completely off my hands. He always smells faintly of mildew, like he spends all of his time in a damp library, but I know for a fact that he doesn’t. There’s something wrong with him, I’m sure of it. Supernaturally wrong.

Still, he pays my bills. He doesn’t trust me to work as his bodyguard anymore, hasn't for a while, but he does send me off to intimidate and murder people.

I take his hand, giving it a quick squeeze before releasing it. He doesn’t let go though. He just looks down at me with this shark-like grin, tugging lightly at my wrist to bring me closer. “I have work to do,” I tell him. I can’t help but pull away from him, get my body as far from his as is polite. The thought crosses my mind to chop off my hand to escape.

“Ah, that is where you’re wrong, Sebastian.” With incredible speed, he grips the back of my neck, too tight to be friendly, and steers me towards the door. “You work for me, and I have assigned you nothing, and you know that I don’t allow for freelancing.”

“This doesn’t concern you.” I try to shrug him off, but he refuses to let go.  I could take him, fight him off, but I don't want to make a scene in the midst of a hotel right before I assassinate someone across the street.  I think Mags must have been counting on that.

“Oh, it very much concerns me. You are targeting the beloved brother of a very dear colleague, and I simply cannot have that,” he says, feigning sympathy for his "very dear colleague." He clucks his tongue, continuing the charade. “Not at Christmas.”

Well then.

Is he fucking with me? Mycroft Holmes? Mycroft Holmes is his very dear colleague? That can’t possibly be true.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I refuse to budge. I’m not exiting this building until the addict detective across the street is dead.

“You will walk with me, Sebastian,” he orders, “because I have quite a lot of information that could be used against you. And your little family is very close to Jacques. Did you know he’s celebrating his own holiday just a few kilometers from dear Jim’s cabin in Connacht? Wouldn’t it be a tragedy should Jacques pay a little visit to the man who orchestrated his mother’s death? Tsk, tsk.”

Finding myself without options, I let myself be guided out the door back onto Baker Street. A group of five or six adolescents are tying balloons and flowers to the railing in front of the door of 221 Baker Street. Still welcoming home the little bitch after a month. Fuckers.

Mags leads me to a white Jaguar down the street. He tosses the keys to me. I toss them back. “I’m not your valet.”

His answer is simple. “You are whatever I tell you you are. Now, please, Sebastian, be a good boy, and do as I say.”

He makes a few phone calls while I drive, motioning where to turn and which lane to be in. I hear Janine’s voice--she’s remarkably perky with him, going so far as to tease him and call him a “pervy old man” in her flirtatious way. Mags seems unbothered.  God, she’s ballsy.

I hate driving in London. We end up in Greenwich at a bistro that is literally a kilometer from Anisa’s flat. There’s a weird pang in my chest when I see the pink shutters that mark her window. I stare at it. Hoping for a glimpse? Hoping that maybe she misses me?

“Ah, poor Sebastian. Fear not, Anisa Shakib had no trouble filling your timeslot.” I want to punch that fucking grin off his goddamn face.

He encourages me to order something, “my treat,” but I’m too disgusted and anxious to eat. After the server disappears, I lean in close. “This isn’t necessary. You don’t like me; I don’t like you. Tell me what you want to tell me, and we can get as far away from each other as is geographically possible.”

He frowns, his expression passing for hurt. “Dear, dear. I quite like you a lot, Colonel. You’re a great deal of fun. I admire your work, I appreciate your discretion--”

“Fine. You like making me sweat. Why am I here?”

“I suppose James didn’t adjust well to the news that Sherlock Holmes lives.” I don’t answer. He raises his eyebrows, his smile reduced to a near hidden smirk. “That’s why you intend to assassinate the younger Holmes. Engagement present?” He pauses again, baiting me. “His heart, I think. Bringing Mr. Moriarty the heart of Sherlock Holmes would certainly appeal to the former’s flair for theatrics.” He leans in close. “I bet he’d even suck your cock if you presented him with such a gift. He’s quite good at it.”

My stomach lurches. Magnussen must read my disgust because he continues in a delighted tone.

“He could almost pass for a victim, the way he chokes around an erection. He so loves to be choked, did you know that?  He’s particularly beautiful when he looks up at you with tears in those large black eyes. But that’s not how you like to play, is it, tiger? That’s why he’s not brought you back to his bed since your first little foray.”

He sits back, watching the effects of his words crashing around me.

I swallow my pride and my temper. I keep my face calm and even. I hope. Magnussen remains silent, continuing to watch me suffer through the questions blazing through my brain. Has he slept with Jim? Has he been watching us? Is that why Jim hasn’t expressed any interest in so much as a snuggle since we slept together? _Has he hurt my Jim?_

When I’m virtually buzzing with curiosity and fury, he speaks up. “No matter. You won’t be seeing James Moriarty like that tonight anyway since you will leave Sherlock Holmes alone.”

I snort. “Says who? You?”

His face darkens. “As I’ve said before, I don’t allow for moonlighting. You may not kill anyone without my express permission and orders, first and foremost.”

I cut him off. “I’m not doing it for pay.”

“No, you’re doing it for love--but either way, I won’t permit it. Think of it as a publishing contract. You may decide you want to publish elsewhere, but I’ve already got the right to your series. Do you understand? Your abilities belong to me, and I will put the lot of you--Jameson, Evelyn, yourself--down like rabid dogs if those abilities are misused.” He says it so simply, so calmly, like he’s simply mentioning the decor of the bistro.

“Furthermore,” he continues, “not that I owe you an explanation, but Mycroft Holmes and myself enjoy a symbiotic relationship. As such, the elder Holmes mourning his brother’s death over Christmas would be detrimental to our current endeavours.”

His voice lowers and his face loses its calm. He looks positively predatory with his teeth bared in what is a smile in shape only and his shoulders raised to appear bigger. It’s the first time I’ve ever considered the man to be physically and immediately dangerous. He’s a strong man--tall and lean but powerful, I realize. I’m suddenly not so sure I could best him. “Lastly, and I want to be perfectly clear about this, William Sherlock Scott Holmes is mine now. When the time is right, the rotten little cunt, along with all of his precious siblings, will be mine to slaughter, do you understand?”

I’m frozen, stunned by the sudden change in his demeanor.

“Do you understand, Sebastian?” he repeats, voice throaty and deep, his entire being morphed into something distinctly beastly.

I’m afraid.

“Because if you don’t--”

“Yes.” I don’t want to know what the consequences are. I don’t want to know what he would do to my little girl or to my Jim. God, Jim’s obsession has made him so vulnerable. He’s made _us_ so vulnerable. “Yes, I understand.”

The monster that resides within Magnussen vanishes just as quickly as it appeared. He leans back in his chair, looking mild as ever. “ _Underfold_! The tiger can be reasoned with. You’re not half as dumb as you appear, Moran.”

I roll my eyes, pretending that I’m not shaken by his unspoken threats. It’s time to go. I need to get back to my family. I need to make sure that Magnussen’s henchman isn’t watching them, isn’t plotting their deaths. Magnussen stops me when I stand up.

“Ah, ah, you’ve not been dismissed. Sit.”

We sit in silence while he eats. He smiles cordially at me, taunting me. When I pull out my phone to text Jim, he tells me I’m being rude and waits until I’ve pocketed the device to continue his meal.

I’ve missed my flight back to Ireland when Mags finally sets his fork down and says, “You want to know if I’ve had your Jim.”

I don’t confirm or deny.

“When he was much younger, yes.”

My stomach turns again.

“He came to me as an intern in Denmark. So eager to learn. Boys like him, they aren’t my type, you see, but he wanted so badly to be choked, to have his throat fucked raw, to be broken, and how could I deny my star pupil?”

My teeth ache at how tightly my jaw is clenched.  My neck burns, and the heat spreads to my chest, and _I will fucking kill this man_. As soon as I get Evelyn and Jim somewhere safe, I will kill Magnussen.

“It makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it? Sexual violence?”

I look away. Blood is pounding in my ears.  Red tinges the corners of my vision.

“Most abused children grow up to be abusers. Based on what Augustus did to you, do you ever worry what you’ll do to Evelyn? Maybe that’s why you avoid even consensual sexual violence--you’re afraid it will feel too good to complete the cycle.”

The world goes silent.  I start to lunge at him, but he holds up his phone. “Let’s give Jacques a call, shall we?”

I take a seat, defeated, body aflame with the need to kill. “Please. Let me go to them. Please.”

He feigns surprise. “You needn’t beg, Colonel. I’m simply taking you out to dinner to thank you for all your hard work this year.”

I inhale slowly. “Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me. . .”  I get to my feet. My entire body tremors.

“Oh and Sebastian? Keep _your Jim_ away from the Consulting Detective. I’ve absolutely no reason to keep him alive and well, so if he should upset my plans for Sherlock Holmes . . . .” He grins primly. “Well, you work for me. You know how I operate.”

~~

The drive up Nephin in the snow is unbearable. I physically ache the entire time to hold my Jim and my sweet little Evelyn. I have to continually remind myself to look out for a cabin that could be Jacques’ but I don’t see one.  Possibly because I’m too distracted.

The entire drive is haunted by images of my family’s dismembered bodies.

I’d performed that service before for Magnussen’s clients. Never at Christmas, because I’m romantic like that, but I’d definitely murdered families on their holidays. Never thought twice about it after confession.  I’m sure Jacques wouldn’t either.

The cabin is warm and dimly lit with bright orange flames roaring in the fireplace. Multi-colored lights from the Christmas tree light up the adjacent walls. The smells of cinnamon and pine tree are heavy in the air. I hear vague conversation coming from the kitchen.

“Jim?” I call. The apprehension is almost too much. Jim was right; love is paralyzing. In this moment, my family is both alive and dead, and there’s a comfort in that. There’s hope in that thought. But when I get an answer--and that answer could be that they’re dead--that liminality, that hope won’t exist anymore. I don’t want to let it go.

Mustering up the last bit of courage for the evening, I call again. “James?!”

He rounds the corner from the kitchen, white powder on his forehead and annoyance in his expression. “Sebastian?” he mimics.

I don’t care. I’m numb with relief. I rush to him, pulling him tight against me, pressing his face against my neck, just to feel him breathe, to smell him. My acerbic, homicidal, obsessive Jim who reeks of gingerbread men and hot chocolate. In this moment, I want desperately to undo whatever Magnussen did to him--whatever was done to him to fuck him up to the point that he enjoys being choked and beaten in moments of intimacy. I want to take him to his bedroom--our bedroom--and kiss him and pet him and show him how painfully good gentleness and affection can feel.

He hums into the touch. “A bit aggressive for a ‘welcome home’ embrace.” He pulls back to study my face. I don’t know what he reads on it, but he leans up to plant a chaste kiss against my mouth. “We’ve been learning about skin pigmentation--” He starts toward the kitchen as he speaks, but I don’t let him go, drawing him back to me.

Whatever questions he has are cut off by my mouth against his, pressing, demanding, needing more. I don’t realize that I’m gripping his bum until his hips are pressed firmly against mine. His skin feels so good. He tastes so good. My Jim. He’s beautiful and he’s safe and I just want to touch every inch of the body that does nothing to arouse me.

“Papa, stop!” Evelyn demands from the threshold of the kitchen. “We’re baking!”

I kiss Jim once more, releasing him to kneel and hold out my arms. “Come here, baby girl.”

She gives me an exasperated look putting her hands on her hips. “Papa! I am baking!”

“I need a hug so bad, Evey. Please?”

She sighs dramatically. She dusts her powdery fingers on her apron and then runs to my arms. I lift her up and swing her around, reveling in the sound of her giggles. My darling little lady. I squeeze her tight, kissing her face again and again and again until she shrieks. “Your beard tickles!”

“I don’t have a beard, you goose.”

“It’s short!”

I run my hand over my face. “It’s just stubble.” I plant a big, wet, loud smooch to her forehead and she laughs, returning the favor with her own sloppy, chocolatey kiss.

“Yuck.” I wipe the remnants of her kiss off my cheek. “What have you gotten into, little girl?”

She gives me a pointed-look. “I’m not little. I am big.”

“Okay, what have you gotten into, big girl?”

Jim and Evelyn exchange conspiratorial looks. “Noffin.” She wiggles out of my arms and lands on her feet. “I hafta bake.” She skitters into the kitchen.

“She’s not actually baking. She’s just eating all the chocolate chips.” Jim folds his arms over his chest. “Did you get the shopping?”

“No, I forgot.”

He groans. “Jesus Christ, I ask you to do one thing . . . fucking Englishman.” He moves toward the kitchen again but doesn’t make it far before I grab his hand. “For fuck’s sake, what do you want?”

“You.” I tug him back against my chest, holding him firmly in place.

Jim, being the clever fucker that he is, softly asks, “Someone watching the cabin?”

“Not watching, I don’t think. But close by.”

“Whose?”

“Mags.”

Jim stiffens, a confused frown on his face. “Why does he care what I do on holiday?” He squirms out of my grip again, staring me down. “What’d you do?”

“I . . . I went to kill Sherlock.” He absently twists his head back and forth, and I can see the shadow of obsession flutter in his eyes. He’s wearing a stupid Christmas jumper and has flour all over his forehead, but for the moment, he looks like pure Moriarty, expensive suit and slicked back hair. He doesn’t interrupt though. “But Magnussen caught me. He said Holmes was his. Apparently he has a working relationship with Mycroft Holmes?”

Jim nods curtly.

“You knew?”

His answer seems almost robotic. “Not certain, but I’m not surprised. If you control the media, you control the population, and what else does the Ice Man need but control of his citizens?”

“Magnussen says we both have to steer clear of him.”

Jim’s eyes light up at the challenge. “Oh really?”

“Jim, I’m serious. Magnussen will kill you.”

He scoffs. “I’m not afraid of CAM.”

“I know you’re not. But you forget you don’t have the resources you used to. You don’t have spies and snipers all over everywhere. You don’t have your network.” I’m disturbed by the growing amusement on his face. “Jim, he will kill you.”

His eyes glaze over. His voice is hollow. “I’m not afraid of dying.”

“He’ll kill Evelyn, Jim.”

Jim blinks, the haze of suicidal obsession dissipating. He licks his lips and cracks his neck. His eyes bounce back and forth, searching for something that only he can see or know. After a period, he stops and looks me dead in the eyes. “Shit,” he breathes. The rage builds and his white face fills with blood.  His breathing quickens, becomes louder. “FUCK.” He reaches for a lamp, but I’m faster.

Struggle as he might, he can’t escape the hold I’ve got him in. He tries to headbutt me, but he’s too short. Every fiber of his being is humming with fury. I can feel the pounding of his heart through his back and the heat radiating off of him. I grip him tighter, covering his mouth as he begins to scream.

“You’re going to scare Evelyn, Jim.”

He manages to move his head enough to snarl, “I fucking hate her! She’s ruined everything.”

My first impulse is to bash his head against the wall. I don’t though; I just cover his mouth, drag him into the bedroom and shut the door, hoping Evelyn doesn’t eat all the chocolate chips or burn down the house with the oven while Jim weathers his temper tantrum.

“Jim, she never asked you to give up the life you had. You made that choice.”

He manages to jerk out of reach and begins pacing the floor, sweat beading on his forehead. “I did this for her!” he shouts, the entirety of his body leaning into his exclamation. “And now I’m fucking trapped!  Basher, I can't _be_ while Sherlock is still alive.  _I just can't_.”

I grab his face, forcing him to look up at me. Jesus, his eyes are wild. “James, you can have your little fit, but you will keep your voice down or I will chain you down and gag you.”

He swats my hand away, glaring at me with insane, glossed-over eyes and lets out this primitive, guttural roar. His fingers tangle in his hair as he continues to pace back and forth. “We’ll find someone. I’ll find someone. Someone will kill him. SOMEONE WILL KILL HIM.”

“Yes, Magnussen will, just be patient.”

He cackles hysterically. “Be patient? Be patient, he says. TWO YEARS. I lost two years in which I could’ve been hunting him. He’s been ALIVE FOR TWO YEARS. My PATIENCE IS GONE, MORAN.” Hot tears are streaming down his face as he pants.

The doorknob rolls back and forth halfway, the lock keeping it from opening. “Daddy? What’s going on? Are you okay?” Evelyn’s timid voice carries through the wood of the door.

Jim stops, the blood draining from his face. It’s like someone’s doused him with ice water. He stands in the middle of the bedroom, stunned.

I crack the door open to answer her. “Everything’s fine, sweetheart. We’ll be out in a moment. Daddy hurt himself putting your present together.”

She scowls. “Why is he putting it together when Father Christmas’s supposed to do that?”

“He’s not real,” her Daddy reminds her, his voice remarkably normal.

“Yes, he is!” she shouts back. “He just never brought you anything because you were bad!”

“You’re not wrong,” he says absently. He flops onto the bed, pale as the snow falling from the sky, staring at the ceiling, unblinking. He looks like a corpse.

“Go finish baking,” I shoo Evelyn away before closing and locking the door. I lean against the bedpost, eying the lifeless bulk on the bed. I don’t think he’s even breathing.

“Do you ever feel that if you could just rip your chest open, if you could just release some of the chemicals your brain translates as emotion, you’d be all right?” he asks, his voice empty and hollow again.

“Can’t say that I do.”

“I came here to kill him, you know. For the New Year, not Christmas,” he clarifies. He lolls his head to face me. “I did actually want to spend Christmas with Evelyn.”

“Wouldn’t it have been better to spend Christmas in London, then?”

“No. He’ll be in Galway for a case during the New Year. A grandmother wants to know which of her grandchildren unsuccessfully poisoned her.”

“Have you been reading his email?”

He nods.

“Well, you’re going to have to stop.”

His gaze rolls up to the ceiling and stays there.

“I mean it, sweetheart. You can’t get near him, and you can’t keep torturing yourself. Let him go for now. We’ll get to him one day.”

“Eurus said she’d kill him first. I told her that was impossible. Looks like I was wrong.”

“Eurus?”

He waves his arm theatrically. “The long-lost Girl One. Sherlock has four Girl Ones. Hooper, Adler, Rosamund, and Eurus.” He sits up, lost in thought. “We should get a Girl One.”

“No.”

“I like symmetry.”

“Jim, Sherlock can’t be your symmetry. You’ve got to exist outside of him. You have a life that is completely separate from him. From all the Holmes offspring.”

He shuts his eyes. “Existing is so boring,” he whispers.

My blood runs cold. “Evelyn’s not boring.”

A shadow of a smile creeps across his face. “No. She’s not boring.”

Sensing that he’s more subdued, I take a seat beside him on the bed. To my surprise, he situates himself to rest his head on my knee. With some hesitation, I run my fingers over his greying temples. He frowns, batting my hand away. “Don’t. I know, I need a touch-up.”

I rest my hand on his chest. “I like it, actually.”

“Makes me look old,” he grumbles.

“Older. Not old. You’ve got a very young face, boss.”

“Considering you’re mostly straight, I’ll disregard your opinion entirely.”

I chuckle, continuing to stroke his hair and the sides of his face. He fights to keep the KILL SHERLOCK impulse at bay, I can see that on his face. His eyes will twitch back and forth like he’s reading something, and then he’ll catch himself and screw his eyes shut. After probably ten minutes of this, he says, “Get the lorazepam. It’s in my cosmetics bag.”

“You don’t think you can manage without it?”

He shakes his head once. “It makes me dull. I need to be dull right now.”

“If you can be good,” I tease, “I’ve got something else that might be more fun.”

He searches my face, deducing what I’ve brought back to the cabin. I laugh when he glares at me. “You couldn’t get the roast and potatoes but you got whiskey? Basher, you goddamned idiot.”

“How’d you know it was whiskey? I might’ve gotten marijuana.”

“You haven’t used marijuana since your first tour of Iraq.”

“So how’d you know it was whiskey?”

“You don’t like bourbon or scotch, beer barely fazes you, and I’ve never known you to drink wine.”

“I had prosecco with Anisa once.”

“Even more of a reason to avoid it,” he spits.

I’m actually touched by that comment. “Why? Were you jealous?”

“I’m not jealous of a callgirl.”  I lean down to kiss the tip of his nose. He swats me away again. “Get away from me. Go get the drugs.”

“Let’s see how you feel after a few shots, eh?” He doesn’t answer so I take that as a yes. “Jim?”

“What?” he whines, clearly annoyed with our interaction.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Has my disinterest ever stopped you before?” Nonetheless, he parts his lips, a sign that he’s expecting a kiss.

“Let me phrase it this way. Do you want me to kiss you?”

His eyes dart away. I can see a pink tinge brighten his cheeks.

“Or maybe I’ll phrase it this way. Do you like it when I kiss you?”

“Are you fishing for compliments?”

“No. Just need to know where I stand.”

We stare at each other for a long time. Finally, it gets to be too much and he groans. “You empty-headed waste of space!” He fists the collar of my coat and tries to pull me down. He’s not strong enough, though, and ends up pulling himself up to kiss me.

It’s a frantic kiss, an outlet for his remaining obsessive energy. I don’t know if its his doing or mine, but suddenly he’s in my lap, his arms around my neck and mine around his waist.

A surprised “uh-oh” from the kitchen separates us. The smoke detector begins its hellish serenade. “Daddy! Papa!”

Jim is off the bed and out the door in record time. “Basher, get the extinguisher. Oh my God, I can’t believe I forgot she was in the kitchen.”

“We’re awesome dads.”

“Get the fire extinguisher!”

~~

Something’s wrong. Something’s changed. I let my eyes adjust to the dark room, counting the bodies in my bed. Evelyn is sprawled out in every direction, her foot buried beneath my back and her arms resting across the area that should be occupied by Jim. He’s not there, though. I shoot up, aware of the padding of barefeet across the cabin’s hardwood floors.

“Jim?”

No answer.

I slide out of bed, careful to keep Evelyn’s foot covered and tiptoe out of the room. “Jim?”

He’s standing in front of the back window, his back to me. A rush of icy wind tells me the window is open, and he’s just standing there in front of it in his thin silk pyjamas. I don’t know if he’s ignoring me or if he’s just too lost in his own head to hear me. I don’t think he’s a sleepwalker.

I grab his robe from the bedroom. “All right, drama queen, if you’re gonna leave the window open, at least dress for the occasion.” I wrap the fluffy white robe around this shoulders. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. The chill is making his eyes red.

“Jim, it’s time for bed.”

My hand rests on the small of his back. Slowly, he rolls his head to look at me. “What did Magnussen tell you about me?”

I don’t want to have this conversation. I don’t want to answer that question. It infuriates me that anyone would ever do those sorts of things to my Jim, especially a sweaty creep like Mags.

When I don’t answer, Jim rolls his head back to stare out the window. “I’m not a well man, Colonel.”

I embrace him from behind, pulling his back against my chest so I can nuzzle at his neck. “S’all right, kitten.”

“You want this to be enough. You want our lives to stay this way. You want to make love to me like a proper couple, want me to give up the man I’ve been chasing for six years, want me to fill the void of Anisa. It won’t ever be that way.”

I kiss his temple. “That’s all right, too.”

“You think it is because you’ve romanticized our cohabitation. You’ve idealized our relationship. You don’t live in reality, likely a remnant of always hoping for something better as a child. You wanted a real family and so you’ve projected that ideal onto our situation.”

I sigh heavily, trying not to be annoyed with the little nerd. “What are you getting at Jim?”

“The truth.”

I decide it’s best to placate him. “Fine, we’ve arrived at the truth; let’s go back to bed.”

He fights me when I try to steer him back to the bedroom. He looks at me with his soulless black eyes. “The truth is I need you to stay, and I can’t offer you anything in return.”

“You blew up my flat. I’m not going anywhere.”

“IDIOT.” He steps away from me, doubling over and tangling his fingers in his hair. “God, you’re so fucking stupid.”

“Hey, calm down,” I warn him. “Come to bed. Right now.”

“I’m asking you to stay permanently.” He looks surprised to see the words come out of his mouth. He turns back to stare at the window.

My stomach tightens. “What does that mean?”

“No more week-long stake outs. No more overseas assassinations. No more hunting. No more meetings with Magnussen!” His voice gets louder and louder until he’s shouting. “I NEED YOU HERE. I NEED YOU TO KEEP ME RIGHT.”

Fuck.

“Are you serious?”

His eyes blaze with white hot fury and he roars his frustration. I suddenly remember this crocodile I’d trapped in Nicobar, the way he’d thrashed about in his cage after I’d taped his mouth shut. Like he was possessed.

I grab his arm tight, forcing him to face me. In this moment, I absolutely fucking hate him, and I don’t know why. “Every time you’ve needed something, I have dropped everything and come to you. I gave up my chance to be retried and possibly honorably discharged. I gave up smoking so I could watch your fucking rugrat while you sat in some prison, sucking Mycroft Holmes’ dick. I flew to fucking Switzerland to find your little weedchild when she was abducted. I gave up women for you! You didn’t ask me to, but I did. I have given up a lot for you, and you’ve never even said so much as “fuck you” and now you have the fucking audacity to demand I babysit you because you can’t bloody control yourself?!”

“I’M NOT DEMANDING!”

“Then what would you call this, Prof?”

He flops into an armchair. “I have no bargaining chip here, Bash. I have absolutely nothing I can give you. I’ll never be your prim little house husband. I have no favors to ask of you. I am literally coming to you empty-handed, hoping that … ” His voice drops down to a whisper, “. . . hoping that you’ll settle for an illusion. Because I can never give you the reality you want.”

“I love what I do, Jim.”

“I know.”

“I love traveling. I love shooting. I love gambling.”

“I know.”

“And you just want me to walk away from that, eh? It wasn’t enough that I don’t see Anisa anymore or that I avoid porn like the plague now. Now I have to help you with bake sales and taking Evey to kindergarten and--”

“Just say no.” He shuts his eyes.

“HOW THE FUCK CAN I JUST SAY NO, JAMES?!”

He throws his hands up in defeat. “Like that, Moran. Just like that.”

I grab the nearest pillow and hurl it into the fireplace. It does nothing to quell my fury. I stalk to the chair he’s laid out on, gripping the arms of the chair to box him in. “Fuck. Fuck you, Jim. Seriously. I fucking hate you.”

There’s no fear in his eyes. Just a distant lost look. Maybe even shame at his own weakness.

“I could fucking kill you right now.”

Nothing. He doesn’t move a muscle.

I lean in, towering over him. He cranes his neck to press a soft kiss to the edge of my mouth. “Just say no, Colonel.”

I grip him by the throat, and he releases a small broken sound but otherwise seems unaffected.

Jim needs me.

My Jim needs me.

I let him go, shoving his head against the back of the chair. He doesn’t move until I throw open the front door. “Are you leaving?” he asks softly.

“No,” I snap back. “I’m getting my mobile out of the car so I can tell my boss I quit. Now go get in the fucking bed and don’t say another word to me.”

I stand out in the snow for a long time, trying to process how to wriggle out of my contract with Magnussen, trying to process what I’ve just agreed to.

No one has tied me down since the British Army.

_I’ve got no strings to hold me down._

I made the choice to be with Jim and Evelyn. Every time I come back from a job, it’s my choice. Every email I’ve answered, every text I’ve read, everything I’ve done for them--it’s all been my choice.

And if I stay . . . if I stay as Jim’s live-in pet, it won’t be a choice. It’ll be because Jim can’t be responsible for his own actions, because Evelyn is in danger, because the two of them won’t be safe from Jim’s obsession until Sherlock Holmes is dead.

_James Moriarty is not a man at all. He's a spider. A spider at the center of a web._

The life I’ve crafted for myself is quickly disappearing before my eyes, like the shore disappearing at high tide. It’s not just the fact that I won’t be a for-hire killer; it’s the entirety of what I’ve sacrificed. Time to myself, card games, money, women . . . peace of mind. Five years ago, I never worried about anything. Now, I worry all the time.

Love is paralyzing.

Love is suffocating.

I’m being suffocated by a weed and a spider’s web.

I made the choice not to get away when I could. This is my punishment.

 _Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her_.

He’s not my wife. He’d never consider marrying me. I don’t know if he’s capable of loving me.

But I love him. I’ve loved him sacrificially. And I’ll continue to do so. My Jim. I’ll give him whatever he needs, even at the expense of my own happiness.  My own life.

I shoot off a text to Janine. She schedules a meeting with Mags for me for the week after Christmas. I turn my mobile off and trudge back into the cabin.

I settle back into the bed, listening to Evelyn and Jim breathe, trying to convince myself that it’ll be worth it. I lie awake for a long time, motionless. I don’t know how much time passes before Jim’s hand envelopes mine, holding tightly.

“Go to sleep, kitten.”

I feel him shuffle about the bed, straining to kiss the backs of my fingers before he settles back down.


	26. Suffocation

_ December 29, 2013 | Basher’s POV _

A cute little thing is eying me across the bar. She's young but legal. Her gaggle of friends giggle every time our eyes meet.

Nice tits, on the smallish side, done up hair like a proper Texas lady, long red fingernails.

After I finish off my rum, I motion her over with two fingers. She comes willingly, her face red and her friends howling. She takes the stool beside me, smiling shyly. She's the socially anxious friend, apparently. Cute, but not certain of it, too insecure to flirt outside of the inebriated encouragement of friends.

"Um, hi," she says. "I'm, uh, I'm--"

"You old enough to drink?"

"Yes si--Yes."

I smirk at her. I nod over at the barkeep, clapping my hand on the girl's shoulder. "Max, whatever she wants."

"I'll, um, I'll have Michelob Ultra," she says softly.

"Except that," I say, grinning my best flirtatious grin. "I'm not paying for that."

Her blush deepens. "I'm sorry--"

I wink at her, feeling pleasantly buzzed and adrift in the current of female admiration. "Don't be. I'm just fooling. Bring her a Mic Ultra, mate, and a shot of Tulla Mor Du."

"Another rum for you?"

"Yeah, why not?"

Orders in, I turn to the kid, fighting everything in my being not to rest my hand on her half-exposed thigh. Self-consciousness has made her smaller. I could undo that in half an hour. Give me two hours, she'll hold her head high like a proper woman.

Can't do that, though. Gotta moody captor--I mean boyfriend--at home. A moody boyfriend pining so hard over a scraggly cocaine addict, he hasn't left his bed since we got home from Nephin.

God, I fucking hate him.

"I'm Elizabeth."

I nod, rolling a balled up napkin between my hands. "Nervous?"

"A bit." Her giggle is too high to be confident.

I could marry this kid and get the hell outta dodge. I could take her behind the bar and work her over until she's a puddle of pleasure. Hell, she might even be open to mothering Evey.  A whole new life is open to me, and I could go for it.

"Don't be." Our drinks arrive. "Can I give you a tip?"

Her face falls. "Too much make-up?"

I brush her hair back over her shoulder, tempted to touch her neck.  She has a sweet little freckle on her throat that I would give anything to kiss. "Nope. You're gorgeous. Sit up straight, though. You'll feel more confident. And you'll stop attracting the attention of creeps like that bloke in the back."

She sits up a little straighter, eyes on the bar, laughing nervously.

"There you go."

She looks at me, marginally braver. "But it attracted the attention of a creep like you." She's not sure if she's pushing it. She's probably met a few men who didn't like her banter or her wit and threw a fit when she didn't play along with their script.

I laugh and she relaxes, relieved. "Touche. It certainly did."

She beams, proud of herself. "What's your name?"

_ Basher Moran. Colonel. Tiger, if you play your cards right. _

"Doesn't matter," I tell her. "I can't take you home with me. And I can't go home with you."

Her face falls again. I reach out to touch her thigh, and it’s exhilarating.  Her skin is smooth and soft and supple and warm, and she moves into the touch like she wants it, and  _ come on, sweetheart, just a little more, I won’t tell.   _ "It's not personal, Elizabeth. You're very much my type."

"Are you . . . are you in a relationship?" She searches my hand for a ring or the tan line of an absent one.  Earlier, her friends had walked by a few times, thinking themselves inconspicuous, checking me over for signs of my availability.

"Sort of." I throw the rum back to quell bitterness rising up inside of me. "Boyfriend."

Her eyes widen. She's not sure how my having a boyfriend fits into her being my type. I chuckle, sounding my more acidic than I want to. "Should I--I'll just go back--"

"I'd like it if you stayed, even if it's just to finish your beer."

She's torn. God, I just wanna fuck her. I wanna touch her smooth skin, kiss my way down that long, thin neck. Every inch of me is vibrating for her, and the reverse is true. She keeps staring at my lips, and her thigh has relaxed into my touch.

"So, are you gay?"

"Nope."

"Bi?"

"Nope."

 

"Sorry, I'm not following. How do you have a boyfriend if you're straight?"

I scrub my face, hating every inch of what my life has become. "No fucking clue. My life has completely derailed in the last few months." I imitate a train careening of the tracks.

"So. . . why'd you call me over here?"

"Because you're cute." I lean in a little, watching her face for signs to back off. She lets me encroach, eyes still on my mouth. “Because you kept watching me, tryna catch my eye. It’s nice to be pursued sometimes.”

She laughs quietly. “Am _I_ the creep in the back?”

“Attention’s only creepy if you don’t want it.”

“I’ve never, erm, I’ve never done anything like this before. Met a guy at a bar.”

“Be careful,” I say before the words register in my brain.  My hand is caressing her cheek and her eyes are fixated on mine for the first time.  Her plump lips are parted and wet and my life would change for the better if I could just feel her tongue on mine. “Seriously, there’s some fucking crazy fuckers out there. Make sure your friends know where you’re going, all that shit.”

“Are you dadding me?”

It’s my turn to blush. “I don’t do daddy kinks.”

“Isn’t that a hallmark of the gay sex scene?” she pushes again, unsure of herself still, but feeling safe enough to take the risk.

“Sass,” I snap back. “I’m not gay.”

“Then why do you have a boyfriend?”

“We have a daughter.”

She raises an eyebrow, the insecurity fleeting momentarily. “You realize how ridiculous that sounds, right? You’re not gay but you have a daughter with a man who you refer to as your boyfriend.”

I scoot closer to her, careful not to touch her aside from my hand on her thigh. “Look at you, challenging the old man at the bar, feeling oh-so-clever.”

She swallows, eyes on my lips again. Goddammit, I want her so much. I can almost taste her. I can almost feel the electricity that comes from touching a beautiful woman. She melts, leaning in. "Erm, you should, erm, you should kiss me. I won't--I won't tell anyone if you won't." She tries to laugh again, but it doesn't come.

_ Just one goddamn kiss. God, please. _

My resistance fails and my hand slides further under her skirt. Something like a growl escapes my throat as she relents, leaning in for a kiss. I could have her. I could take her.

_ I’m a predator. Always have been. _

_ Except I’m not. _

The memory of my bitch mother weeping after being confronted with the evidence of Augustus’s infidelity slams into me like a speeding lorry. The small, prey-like boy I once was feeling so helpless again, always so helpless.

_ “You can’t even come home to me?” _ Except it’s not her voice. It’s Jim’s.

All the id inside me is screaming to kiss whatever this girl’s name is. And everything else is telling me to go back to my weakling, selfish psychopath bitch of a boyfriend. Make him eat something. Get him the fuck out of bed so his muscles don’t atrophy.

_ I’ll never be predator again. _

Evelyn will never feel as powerless as I did. Jim will never feel as unwanted as my mother did, even if it’s true. And goddammit, I hate that about myself. I hate this cloying loyalty, this bullshit notion about family, this desire to fix what Augustus broke.

Jim looks at Sherlock for symmetry. I look to Augustus. We’re both so fucked up. Co-dependent and sick and enmeshed.

I sit back, my cock positively furious. “Elizabeth, you’re not wearing too much makeup. You’re fucking hot as hell. Shoulders back, sit up straight. If some prat gets his knickers in a twist because you’re sassy, don’t fuck him. Don’t even try to appease him, just walk away.” I pull a knife from the pocket of my jeans. “If you get in a situation where you need this, use it. But if you pull it out, be prepared to fucking use it. Don’t hesitate because the last thing you want is to be disarmed. Do not go home with that perv in the corner, yeah? In fact, I strongly recommend you hit up The Grotto if you wanna decent one-night stand. And for what it’s worth, it’s killing me that I can’t take you home.”

I pay our tab and leave.

~~

I’m not surprised to find that Jim hasn’t fucking moved since I left his home two hours ago, and it makes me hate him all the more. I enter his room without knocking.  His reptile eyes come to rest on me in the threshold. His lips are white and scaly from dehydration, and even though it’s only been two days since he’s eaten something, his face has taken on a more skeletal appearance, making the circles under his eyes look deeper and darker.

I check my mobile for the time. Two-thirty in the morning. “Aren’t you supposed to be having a chat with Magnussen about the termination of my contract?”

Jim rolls his head, the snapping of bones echoing through the silence of the house. His tongue laves across his lips, an unsuccessful attempt to wet them. “I . . . forgot,” he says slowly, voice void of any sort of apology or regret.

A half-scoff, half-laugh bubbles from my throat. “Are you fucking kidding me, Jim?” I ask softly, careful to keep my temper at bay--or at least quiet--while Evelyn sleeps upstairs. His eyes narrow but he says nothing.

I storm over to him, rage stacking up with every step. He doesn’t even flinch when I grab a handful of his hair and pull him off the pillow. “Get. _The fuck._ Up.”

He tilts his head to look up at me. I see nothing in his expression. He could at least have the decency to be afraid. I could kill the little shit. I should.

With a growl, I tug him out of bed, and he collapses to the floor. Hate tints the void in his eyes, and I find I’m relieved. I didn’t leave some pretty little thing at the bar for a comatose vegetable.

“Get up.”

“Or what?” he asks, as sardonic as the depression will allow.

Clutching the collar of his pyjamas, I drag him out of the room to the kitchen and deposit him at his chair at the kitchen table. “There is no ‘or what’. Sit at the table. Unless you want to eat on the floor like an animal.”

With what seems like great effort, he obeys. I’m shit in the kitchen, but I know a thing or two about nutrition. Turkey with avocado slices, spinach and swiss cheese on whole wheat bread and a glass of milk. “Eat this.”

He pokes at the paper towel beneath the sandwich and sideeyes me.

“Plates are for people who can handle their shit, professor. Eat the sandwich.”

He sulks. “I don’t wanna.”

“I don’t care. Eat it.”

He stares at the sandwich for a long moment. Then he looks up at me. “I wanna go back to bed.”

“Eat your sandwich, Jim.”

He pokes at the bread, then asks in a soft, fragile voice, “Did you fuck her?”

My temper boils again. “Excuse me?”

“The girl. Did you fuck her?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just tell me, Bash.” He sounds so distant. “Did you?”

Maybe I’m romanticizing him, maybe I’m seeing what I want to, but I think he might be jealous? Sad? “Nope.”

His eyes flick upwards for a brief moment, and he tries to flash a smile. He fails miserably. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. The silence stretches out.

I lean in a little bit, the anger fading. “Eat the sandwich, and you can go back to bed.”

His nod is slow and deliberate, like an infant imitating its caregiver, then tears off a piece.

~~

Jim is marginally brighter after two days of consistent meals and water and being dragged into the shower. Most of his effort is expended on interacting with Evelyn. I think maybe deep down, through the fog of his depressive temper tantrum, he still wants to be a good father. He doesn’t make her meals anymore, he doesn’t read to her, but he hugs her and kisses her and talks softly to her, even when I can’t get him to acknowledge my presence.

How little must I mean to him that Sherlock is the cause of this episode? The thought haunts me, embitters me. I’ve given up everything for him, and yet that’s not enough. I’m not enough.  _I'm never enough._

Why am I still here?

I despise Jim for trapping me. I despise him for bringing me to the lowest point of my adult life. I despise him for what he’s done to us.

Evelyn needed a real family, not this bizarre charade. She needed a mummy and a daddy who didn’t murder people or stalk drug addicts or slice themselves to pieces over someone they met all of three times. I wish to God he’d left her on the docks.

I wish I’d left him in Nephin to waste away.

I close the book I’m reading to Evelyn and kiss her forehead. And then I watch her.

“Papa, what are you doing?” she asks through the veil of a doze.

“Just thinking.”

I could still take her away. I wouldn’t have the life I used to have, but it would be better. My contract with Mags is still valid. I could teach my little lady the art of being a predator for pay. We could be a father-daughter body-guard assassination team.

The only problem is that she loves her daddy. She fell apart when her daddy was gone before. Could I do that to her again, even with Jim devolving into a toxic influence?

Could I take from Jim the only thing that seems to keep him from slipping completely over the edge?

I could. I could leave him. I could save her. I could escape.

Except I couldn’t.

~~

_ Jim's POV | January 2014 _

I’m surprised Moran hasn’t murdered me, to be honest. Every one of our interactions drips with loathing. Proper soldier, hating the weakness in me.

I think maybe I almost feel proud? Except I can’t feel anything.

My thought patterns, which I’d always childishly imagined as binary code, no longer contain zeroes and ones. Everything reads as  _ killsherlock _ now. It’s an unresolved thought, and there’s not enough sertonin in my brain to keep the synapses firing, so everything’s just stuck. I’m in a rut of a single intrusive thought that I can’t act on. Because of a chemical failure in my brain, I have to act on thoughts to let them go, and because of a situational failure in my life, I can’t act on that one thought. Not without hurting my daughter.

Which seems to be in direct opposition of where my brain is. I don’t care about her. I find myself holding her and kissing her, but I suspect it has to do with addiction to reward chemicals. Oxytocin is released and I can just barely feel it over the  _ killsherlock  _ obsession, which I suppose if I was well, I would find nice.

It’s important that she feel loved, even if I don’t love her. Even if I can’t. I want her to be healthy and happy and secure as much as I can want anything in this brain fog.

I don’t love anyone except maybe Sherlock Holmes. I want him dead.

“What are you doing?” Basher grumbles behind me. He has no sympathy. Sweet tiger.

An eternity spans between his question and my body acquiescing with my brain’s demands to answer. Ugh, depression makes everything so goddamned slow. “Turning on the tablet.”

“You’ve been staring at it for twenty minutes, arsehole.”

Really? Maybe I should try out cocaine again. A twenty minute delay is really unacceptable. I stare at my hands, wondering why they haven’t been doing the work they should.

_ One, two, three. . . _

There. It’s on. Finally.

“Christ, professor,” he grumbles again, taking a seat beside me on the sofa. “Are you even going to be able to talk to Mags?”

“Of course. It’ll be like old times.”

A vague feeling of pleasure washes over me at Basher’s disgust. Sweet tiger, so upset about Charles Augustus Magnussen used to do to me. He might feel better if he gave it a try; he’s angry enough.

He keeps his distance. His body language indicates he’s closed off, uninterested in contact. In the past, small touches from me led to broader touches from him. I wonder. . .

I exert what little energy I have and inconspicuously touch my knee against his. He instinctively jerks away; the action doesn’t even register on a conscious level.

A bitter sensation of tightness flickers in my chest and then disappears, so that once again, I feel nothing.

Magnussen’s on the screen before I realize it. I crack my neck, and something vague and akin to pleasure blooms beneath my skin, just strong enough to catch my attention.

“Jameson,” Magnussen’s voice cuts through the brain fog like a knife. Suddenly everything is painfully clearer, like someone over-applied the Photoshop sharpen effect to reality. The numbness of my skin reduces, and I realize that the entirety of my skin is achy. For a brief moment, I remember how I used to be, both as an adolescent under Charles’s tutelage and as a crime boss running London. Depression didn’t darken either of those eras. 

“It’s Jim,” I tell him.

A sadistic sort of sympathy crosses his expression.  “You look unwell.”

My lips are incredibly dry. Gross. When was the last time I moisturized? Or showered? “I have been dead for a few years,” I parry back.

“Your tiger does not provide adequate care?” Charles’s gaze focuses on Moran, whose face has turned red with rage.

“He does all right. He’s a bit angry with me.” I turn my gaze to Basher as well. “Borderline abusive.”

His temper is simmering just below the surface. I can’t pinpoint the source of my desire to irritate him, but it’s there.

Magnussen lets out a pleased hum. It would seem he also enjoys irritating the sniper. Such a horrible man; it’s always a pleasure speaking with him. “You do have a type, don’t you, Jim?”

Basher clears his throat, doing his best not to show his hand. “We’re severing my contract, Chuck. You two can flirt on your own time.”

“Are you envious?” Magnussen says with mock surprise. That was one of the things I admired most about Charles--for all intents and purposes, he sounded sincere, but there was always that little hitch in his tone that indicated it was all false. A proper mindfucker, gaslighting lesser victims. “Surely you wouldn’t deny old lovers the chance to visit?”

Moran’s shoulders tense at the word “lovers.” “Should I leave you two alone then?” he barks back.

“No, no, dear boy. Down to business, then.” His pale eyes rest on me. There’s a languid sort of intensity in them. The man could slice the skin from your body with all the sadism and viciousness or a fourteenth-century executioner all the while maintaining an even heartrate. I would say without even breaking a sweat, but. . . “ _ Jim _ , I understand I am returning the Colonel to your custody?”

Moran scoffs. “Custody? Are you serious?”

I reach out to rub his back, but he jerks away again. “He’s very upset, Charles. Don’t antagonize him.”

“I’d say he is jealous that in just a few minutes of conversation with me, light has already returned to your eyes and color to your cheeks.”

For the first time in what must be ages, I smile. “Don’t flatter yourself, dear. I’m also truly enjoying watching him squirm. He’s a bit squeamish in the bedroom, and apparently you’ve told him all our little secrets.”

“Not all of them, magpie.”  My heart leaps at the nickname.  How good would it feel to be bound to Charles's cross again, to be beaten and burnt and branded?  _That's_ what I need.  Magnussen turns his attention to the Colonel.  “Are you aware that voyeurism is one of his many kinks?”

Moran turns crimson with fury. It would make sense, biologically, for Basher to feel protective. A predator is mocking the parent of what he considers his child. Perhaps he even feels territorial of his mate, despite loathing me and my weakness. He’s certainly not alone in that.

“Don’t tease, Charles.  Let’s cut to the chase, darling,” I say, narrowing my eyes. Suddenly I feel the blood of Jim Moriarty, who I once was, swell and swim through my veins. I’m making a deal. For my benefit. Because I’m Jim Moriarty and I can. “I want Sherlock Holmes.”

“No.”

“Give me Sherlock Holmes, and I won’t have any need of your employee.  You can keep him all to yourself.”

“Tempting, but no.”

Basher’s temper is erupting internally. He shoots me a lethal look and gets up from the couch to pace. Tiger is ready to fight, but there’s no fight here. It’s all mindfuckery and gambits. This is, after all, the twenty-first century.

I lick my lips again, still flabbergasted at how scratchy they are. “How about we make it fun? A game, per se.”

“I don’t play games, Mr. Moriarty.” He uses the same tone he used when I was in Denmark, interning with his company. It sends shivers across my skin.

“It could be fun,” I dare him, leaning in. “Who can kill Sherlock the fastest?”

“I know how I will kill the siblings Holmes already. I do not need a time limit; the noose is already about their necks.”

I try to disguise my disappointment. The depression certainly dampens my temper, but I’m aware that my skin feels warm with catecholamines, urging me to fight or take protective action. Unlike Basher, though, I can control my facial expressions. How the hell the man successfully cheats at cards, I’ll never know. “Then I need Basher unless you’re counting on my loyalty to keep Sherlock safe.”

“Have you considered practicing self-control, Mr. Moriarty?”

“We both know that my impulse control is iffy at best.”

“Only when you want it to be.”

I lean in, dropping any pretense of friendliness. “You think that my paternal feelings for my child will keep Sherlock safe, and you are very, very wrong, Charles. And I have no problem dying if it means I get to finish off the baby Holmes. I will tear London apart to get to him, even if that means cutting through you.”

He leans back in his chair, keeping the same placid smirk, but the minute change in his posture tells me that he’s considering my history, risk factors, et cetera. He knows I’m not a “well” man, and he knows the extent of it.

My lack of self-preservation has always been the ace up my sleeve.

Magnussen sets his sights on the human embodiment of rage pacing behind me. “You are unable to satisfy your lover, Sebastian? He has to chase after other men?”

Basher leaps over the couch with no difficulty, slamming his palms down on the coffee table where Magnussen’s face sits. “I will fucking murder you and then we won’t even need to have this goddamn meeting--”

“Careful. Don’t threaten me, Moran, lest your little family suffers.”

“Do it, big man, I will come after you with hellfire. I can get past your men. And when it’s just you, you’re a fucking coward.” He spirals into nonsensical violence and is practically frothing at the mouth when I manage to get between him and the screen.

“Let’s look at where we find ourselves, Charles. If I kill Sherlock, you don’t get the pleasure of doing so and you come after my child and me or maybe you tell your BFF Mycy about me, but then Basher, who has survived bombings, being a prisoner of war, bear and crocodile attacks, and God knows what else, comes and he has nothing left to lose. How do you suppose you’ll fair when he doesn’t need your money, just your head?” I can’t help but smirk. Basher isn’t wrong--Magnussen is a massive coward, which is why he makes for such a wonderful sadistic partner. He wants power and will gladly take it in the bedroom. “Give me Basher, you can play your little game with Sherlock, and I’m out of your way.”

He chuckles. “What on Earth makes you think that he’s capable of stopping you?”

“I’ll be trying, you know. He’ll keep me straight.” The depression rolls over me again. My words seem slow and foreign coming out of my mouth. Suddenly the world seems to be sepia-toned. “Together I think we’ll manage.”

I feel Basher’s eyes on me, and for a moment that’s all I feel.

I’m so weak.

Basher despises weakness.

“You give him to me. You get your detective. Once Sherlock’s dead, you can have him back. In the meantime, I’m kept at bay.”

“What guarantee have I that he won’t come after me?”

“My life. Evelyn’s. He’s a protector, first and foremost. He won’t put us at risk.”

“I could just tell my friends in high places where you are and be done with it. I would be protected.”

“I have information that you want, though, dear.”

That piques his interest. Information always does. He tilts his head back and forth in thought. “Continue.”

“For every month that my existence remains a secret and for every month that you leave us alone, I’ll give you information. Information on your boytoy Ice Man, information on Sherlock, information on the Black Lotus gang, anything you want.”

“I’ve personal ties with Mycroft. What could you possibly tell me that I don’t already know?”

“Aren’t your curious about the East Wind, Charles?”

“All right, my dear. You abandon your endeavors to murder Sherlock Holmes and I will leave your little family alone. You may keep your tiger eleven months out of the year. I get him for four weeks out of the year, whenever I need him. Likely, those weeks won’t be consecutive.” His pale eyes focus in on Basher and the blood in my veins runs cold. “And, for my benefit, so that I know your lover is sincere, that he won’t turn on me, and as a gift for you, my dear little magpie, I have one last request.” Every single one of his yellowed teeth is exposed with his smile. “Don’t worry, my pretty little magpie, you’ll benefit from this.”

~~

_ Basher's POV | The Next Day _

Jim returns from dropping Evelyn off at Amber and Susan’s. He pulls the tumbler from my hand and presses a kiss to the side of my face. “This could be lots of fun, Bash,” he murmurs against my cheek. He nuzzles against the scruff on my chin. My stomach churns.

I push him away. “Get off, Professor.”

Rage flashes in his eyes and I wish to God he’d hit me so that I could fucking deck him. He doesn’t though. “Is the camera ready?”

I might just deck him now. He’s been perkier today, a shadow of who he used to be. Fucking pervert. He’s looking forward to this. Jesus, what have I done? How have I come to this? My head is pounding with fury and disgust. “Nope.”

“What the fuck have you been doing?” he snaps back, impatient.

“Drinking.”

He slides like liquid into my lap, concealing all evidence of his anger to get what he wants. He kisses me. My stomach sours. “Come on, Tiger. It won’t be so bad. You want to choke me, don't you, Tiger? It'll feel good to alleviate all that rage. And I want it, Basher. I want you to throttle me properly. It'll be good for both of us. Give us both what we need.”

My temper comes to a head when he tries to kiss me again and I shove him to the ground, stopping short of kicking him in the ribs.

“You’re fucking disgusting, you know that? A blackmail video is what gets you off? That’s what makes you get you out of bed? You brushed your teeth and did you hair and all that and I didn’t have to force you and why? Because Magsy wants a video of you being a little whore? Do you know how sick that is?” I’m shouting at him. Some smartarse psychologist might say the situation has triggered some weird PTSD symptoms from that  _ one time with Augustus _ _and the American Senator and the camera_ when I was little. I’m sure they’d be wrong though.

It’s probably the whiskey talking. Because I’m just like my dad.

Jim gets to his feet, and for a moment, I think he’s going to fight me. Instead, he slides his hand between my legs and fondles me. “Would it help if I wore make-up? If I heightened my voice? I could act like one of your little girlfriends.”

“Are you mocking me?” I demand. Because I honestly can’t tell.

“Tell me, Tiger,” he whispers, voice high and feminine. “What do you need to get hard for me?”

My stomach churns again. “Stop it. God, you’re such a fucking pervert.” I jerk his hands away from my cock and leave him in the middle of the living room. “Go get your things. I’m not letting Magnussen violate the sanctity of our home. I’ve rented a room off-island.”

I pride myself on being a thoughtful, thorough bed partner. I’ve never needed to record or photograph or take mementos because I know that I’ll be welcomed back with open legs. For some men, those sorts of trophies make them feel powerful, but really, they’re just undisciplined and weak. A real man doesn’t need memories when he can have the real thing. You make her come hard enough, often enough, you’re golden.

So Mag’s request for a video infuriates me.

He wants to intrude on some intimate conquest, wants me to hurt a smaller man as if there’s any glory to be found in subduing someone weaker.

“Someone’s angry,” Jim finally purrs, beaming from ear-to-ear.

I distance myself from him.

“Oh dear,” he pouts mockingly, “are you ignoring me?”

I open his car door for him out of habit. I don’t wait around for him to get in the vehicle, though. He can shut his own bloody door. I don’t work for him anymore.

No, I’m his slave now. I don’t work for him; I labor for him. Goddamn him. He’s got everything now, doesn’t he? My sexuality, my privacy, my freedom.

_ I want to break free. _

I realize the words are coming from the speakers, not my head. I jerk the mp3 player from the auxiliary cord and toss it into the seat behind me. I check behind me to see if it’s clear to back out.

Jim glares at me. “Throwing a tantrum, Bash?”

I don’t look at him. “Don’t talk to me.”

I can feel his eyes cloud over, like a storm rolling over the horizon. “I'm getting you out of a miserable contract, you could at least say thank you.”

“Aren’t you the one that always says gratitude is meaningless?”

He smiles again. “Touche. Still I thought you’d be happy to be rid of Magsy.”

I inhale deeply. I take the keys out of the ignition. And I unload.

“Are you _ fucking kidding me _ , Jim? Seriously? Why the fuck would I be happy about this, eh? No more travelling, no more shooting? WHY THE FUCK WOULD I BE HAPPY, EH? Mags paid me to zip around the world to kill and intimidate and spy--sort of like you used to before you lost your fucking mind! And now you single-handedly have ruined my fucking life. This is the opposite of what I want, Jimmyboy. Do you understand that? Do you understand what you’ve done to me?!”

He gives me that reptilian head tilt, cold and unfeeling. “You could’ve said no.”

I laugh. “Really? I could’ve said no? Watched you destroy yourself and our daughter? Oh, I’m sorry,  _ your _ daughter?”

His face turns positively sadistic. “Would that have been so bad, Basher? Watching me destroy myself? Do you looove me?”

I raise my hand to hit him. He doesn’t flinch; his smile doesn’t even fade. “Hit me, Tiger,” he says lasciviously. “Come on, big boy, do it.”

“You’re disgusting.” I shake my head and restart the car. I ignore him the rest of the way to the hotel. Without my wall of anger to lash out against, he falls back into his depressive state.

~~

_ Jim's POV _

_ Basher’s massive cock slides into me with little preparation, minimal lubrication, and my back arches. “Tiger, you’re too big.” _

_ “Take it, slut. This is what you’ve wanted isn’t it? To be taken? To be devastated?” _

_ “Yes,” I whine, trying to get away from the intrusion. “Yes.” _

_ He pumps into me before I’m ready, forcing himself deeper into me. “I’m giving what you wanted, kitten. Just like Mags did. Just like all those nameless men in clubs, in alleyways. Except this time, you filthy little whore, you’re mine. Permanently. You won’t come for anyone else ever again. You won’t come unless I give you permission, and you will only come from my cock in your tight little hole.” _

_ “Y-yes, Tiger.” _

_ “Look at the camera, pretty boy.” His massive hand forces my head to face the eye of the camera, to face what will soon be Magnussen’s eyes. “Tell him, Jim. Tell him you’re mine.” _

_ “Basher, please...please don’t make me.” _

_ He presses an uncharacteristically sweet kiss to my cheek. “Do it, sweet little bitch, and I’ll choke you. You like that, don’t you, Jim? Not having to breathe? Being that close to death. At my hands. Tell Magnussen you’re mine, kitten. Tell him you’re my fucktoy.” _

_ “I am, fuck. I am, Bash. I’m your little slut. He’s going to ruin me, Charles. Ruin my hole.” And those lean fingers wrap around my throat and squeeze. _

_ I want to shout my thanks, but Basher doesn’t fuck around. He’s cut off my air supply completely. “Look at me, kitten. Look at me while I break you. Let me see those pretty tears.” _

Except none of it’s true. Basher is so repulsed by me, by Magnussen’s demand, that he can’t keep it up. I’ve slipped a thick vibrating plug inside myself, letting it tease my prostate and the sensitive flesh around my rim. "Look at me, Bash." I guide his hand to my cock. Maybe this will change his mind. Maybe my pleasure will trigger some predatory instinct or protector instinct. Maybe this is will change things.

“Kiss me, Tiger, please, please.” I guide his face to mine, and he only growls. He ruts against me, just for show, so that it appears that he’s fucking me. I lick his lips, trying to entice him, and the hatred on his face intensifies. He bites my tongue and my back arches as I moan.

“You perverted little bitch,” he snarls into my ear, soft and out of the camera’s periphery.

“Choke me, Basher, choke me. I’m so. . . I’m close.” He shrinks back, repulsed. “Please, Tiger, please. Do it for me. Do it for your little family. Protect me, Tiger. I can’t do it without you. Keep me safe, Bash. Keep me right. Look how hard I am, Tiger.”

He slaps me hard across the face, then his strong hands squeeze my windpipe and . . . oh . . . maybe there is a God.

_ Basher looks to the camera as he slaps me again. He grabs my pulsating cock, prolonging my orgasm until it’s painfully sensitive, and I’m writhing. “This is what he needed, Chuck. And now he’ll be a good boy for me, won’t you, kitten?” _

_ His grip on my throat won’t let me answer, so I just nod enthusiastically. Two fingers swipe through the come on my stomach and Basher shoves them down my throat. _

I make the mistake of opening my eyes. Painted on Basher’s face is loathing and disgust. In a flash, I realize that maybe I’d had certain hopes, certain expectations . . . that maybe this moment, even with Magnussen’s intrusion, even with the sadomasochistic games, might remind Basher that he said he wanted me. He kissed me first. He took me to bed first.  He called me kitten and said he would stay. I wanted this to maybe function as a turning point. Instead, I realize, I’ve miscalculated. I’ve underestimated the power of his sexual hang-ups and his ire. Choking me hasn’t released his anger; it’s intensified it. It’s repulsed him.

In that quick flash of realization, I  _ ache _ .  I hurt in a way that I've never hurt before, in places I wasn't aware of. All I can do is stare, succumb to the unpalatable pain of a shattered heart.

_ pleaseBasher. _

_ killsherlock. _

_ I can’t. _

And as quickly as it appeared, the agony is lost in the returning numbness.

I will never bed Basher again, and that’s okay. I’m okay. I’ve done what I must to protect my little girl. Nothing else matters.

_ I want to die. _

~~

_ February 2014 | Basher’s POV _

Once we’re free of Mags, once we’ve completed the video and he’s satisfied with its content, I can’t bring myself to touch Jim again. We've not fucked, not even really had a serious snogging session, but since we left Nephin, I’ve slept in his bed to ensure he doesn’t do anything stupid in the middle of the night.  After the video, we resume sleeping in separate beds, only my bed is gone, so I’m back to sleeping on the sofa.

I can’t kiss him. I can’t touch him. I can’t look at my reflection without seeing my father, and I fucking hate it. And, unfortunately, this bleeds into my interactions with Evelyn. She notices, of course. She asks why I don’t hug her anymore, why I don’t kiss her, and it breaks my fucking heart.

Jim has _ruined_ us.

The end of December, the entirety of January, and the beginning of February are the absolute worst months of my entire life. I feel impotent, not only because I’m disgusted with the similarities I now share with my father, but because . . . I’m not working, or hunting, or gambling, or fucking.

All the things I’ve loved are stripped from me, and during those months, I have no idea who I am except Evelyn’s dad. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t regret sacrificing my lifestyle for Evey, I don’t--but I resent it, and it’s hell. It’s hell to always be available, to do the same thing over and over and over again. Wake up, get Evelyn dressed and ready for the day, make sure Jim at least drinks water so he doesn’t shrivel up and die, get Evelyn to preschool, pick her up from preschool, make sure clothes get washed, make sure the shopping is done, make sure both Jim and Evelyn are in bed at decent times, drug Jim when he gets out of hand . . . on and on and on.

It’s also during this time that I realize I’ve been a “weekend dad” to Evelyn up until this point. Up until Christmas, I’d never seen her post-infancy anxiety meltdowns, or had to deal the night terrors that randomly rear their ugly heads. She’d never blatantly, consistently disobeyed me before; now all I hear is “no” and not the cute “no” that she used to toss around.

There’s a lot of tears and nightmares that go into parenting, I learn. And not a lot of sleep.

I’m able to keep Jim mostly together, I think. I make sure he minimizes his screen time, so that he can only do everyday things, like not hacking into Sherlock Holmes’ emails and playing online chess. Something in his face changes, though. It reminds me of that catatonic sort of look he had after Mycroft Holmes released him. He smiles only at Evelyn, and even then it’s very brief. Sometimes, he falls so deep into his own mind that I have to violently shake him to get his attention.

After the New Year, he goes for days without eating. He only sleeps because of the lorazepam injections.

The handwashing becomes particularly problematic in mid-January, just before he resumes teaching at the college. His cuticles split and peel, his palms become scaly and rough, and his fingers crack and bleed. At first, I ignore it, because I don’t know what the fuck else to do about it, and truthfully, the bitter side of me wants him to bleed. I want him to suffer.  I don’t fucking care what happens to him.

But at the end of January, Evelyn’s teacher reports that she’s started emulating the behavior at school, and I figure it’s time to address the issue. Jim agrees that something has to change.

One night in mid-February, he wakes me up by curling up beside me on the sofa. He pulls my arm around his waist, not so much to be affectionate, but to keep him from falling onto the ground. I feel that odd pang of disgust, but I suppress it. I’m getting really good at suppression, I think bitterly.

He smells different, I realize. He smells like chalk and printer toner--not his fancy French cologne or his imported Swiss soaps or the spices he used when he cooked. My stomach twists at the realization, but I can’t bring myself to cuddle him closer. I can’t bring myself to offer him any comfort.

I want him away from me. I want him to go sleep in his bed.

I don’t want to be angry at him, but I am, and I don’t fully understand why.

I made the choice to not have a choice.

I had no choice.

I’m trapped.

_ Hi Sisyphus, I’m Sebastian Moran. _

“Yeah?”

He doesn’t answer for a long time, and I wonder if he’s finally fallen asleep. Then he says, “I’ve been offered a research fellowship at the University of Queensland in Brisbane.”

I wait for him to continue. He doesn’t, so I prod. “I don’t know what that means, Jim.”

“I’ll be doing meta-research on telemedicine.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I’ll be researching the best methods to research ideas that medical administrators have to improve healthcare that’s provided at a distance.”

We’re both silent.

“Jim, that sounds incredibly boring.”

“It’ll . . . it’ll involve a lot of time and energy. A lot of, erm, brainwork, I suppose. Lots of data to gather and process.” He rests his forehead against my chin. “Should I take it?”

Oh.

“Fuck, Jim, I have no idea.”

He sighs and goes silent. His eyelashes flutter against my neck, prompting a new wave of disgust.

I think maybe he wants comfort. Help? Help making a decision? Just a sounding board? Well, fuck that, I’ve already given up my sexuality, my pride, my hobbies, and my livelihood for him. I’m not giving him a night’s sleep. He can fucking figure this out on his goddamn own.

Why do I still just want to rip open his jugular?

“I don’t know what you want, boss, but I’m trying to sleep. Go to your room.”

He tenses against me, and for a brief moment, my instincts go crazy, warning me that I’m about to be murdered. His eyes bore into me, and I stare straight back at him. There was a time in our working relationship that that glare would’ve paralyzed me. Now, it only terrifies me. The monstrosity that is Moriarty has shown his belly, and, while I have no doubt that he’ll bite me, I know that he won’t kill me.

“Go to your room, professor.”  I glare back.

He slides off the sofa and storms to his room. I hear him rummaging through a closet, looking for the handgun he’d hidden there. Since his meltdown in November, I’ve disposed of it.

After an hour of his frantic searching and whispered cursing, I administer the Xanax the doctor prescribed and wait until he’s knocked out before returning to the sofa.


	27. The Weed

_ March 2014 | Basher’s POV _

Jim stands on the bed, one of my buck knives extended towards me. His raw, dry throat manages a vicious, “No!”

“You’re going!”

“No!”

“Yes! You haven’t peed in ten hours, Jim!”

He starts to shout, but instead he vomits. All over the comforter. At this point, it’s just bile. He cleared the contents of his stomach forty-eight hours ago. I have no idea what’s keeping him upright, because by all means, he should be passed out if not dead. He looks back at me, the whites of his eyes red as blood and all the blue veins on his face protruding against his pale skin. His lips are chapped to the point that they should be bleeding, but his blood is probably too thick to move.

Without missing a beat, he says primly, “That’s because I haven’t been able to keep anything down in ten hours.”

“We’re going to the A and E.”

“No!”

“Papa?” Evelyn’s standing in the doorway of our new flat in Brisbane, still bleary-eyed and puny from her own bout with whatever Australian hell-virus my two charges have contracted. “Whass going on?”

Jim quickly hides the knife behind his back. “Nothing,” we both say in unison.

“Evey, darling, you look so tired,” Jim cooes. “Go to bed, darling.”

“She looks a sight better than you!”

He glares at me. “We’re getting better!”

“ _ She’s _ getting better! You have a fever of 38.9!”

“Daddy,” she says, remarkably reasonably for a child whose father is standing on a vomited-upon bed in just his pants wielding a buck knife, “you need to go to the doctor.”

“No, I need to go to sleep, but your--” he kicks at me “--idiot papa won’t let me.”

“Oh like you weren’t in here playing minesweeper before I came in!”

He stumbles, but rights himself before he can fall. His eyes unfocus for a moment, and I’m terrified he’s going to pass out right onto his knife.

How’s that for poetic justice? Moriarty, who has put so many of his allies to death, stabs himself in the back whilst trying to hide from his daughter the knife with which he’s threatening her papa.

Tosser.

“Jim, get off the bed before you slip in vomit.”

He averts his eyes from the mess on the mattress. He taps his fingers against his cheek in a familiar pattern, his attempt to self-soothe since he can’t get to the sink to wash his hands. “Evey, would you please get a bottle of water out of the kitchen?”

Evelyn nods and trots off. I turn to watch her leave, making sure that she’s not experiencing any dizziness or other side effects from the illness, which is a huge mistake, because the moment my back is turned, the burning mass that is a feverish Jim is on my back, the knife pressed to my throat. “If you leave me at that hospital, I will track you down and cut your spine out of your body.”

In my chest arises the first annoying pang of affection I’ve felt for Jim since December. Despite the awkward positioning, I reach behind me to stroke his cheek. “You fucking twat, I’m not gonna leave you.”

I feel his stomach clench behind me and jerk out of his grasp before he can vomit on me.

“Yes you are!” he says after he’s vomited on the bed again. “You wanna take Evelyn and flee!”

I groan. Daft, paranoid, puke-y idiot. “James Moriarty, you are sick as a dog; there is absolutely no reason for me to wait until you’re in the hospital to ‘flee.’”

He looks up at me with saucer-wide eyes.

“Oh, you poor sick bastard. You didn’t even think of that, did you?”

“I’m not sick,” he says, completely unconvincing.

Several small flutters of cloying affection swarm in my chest. “Yes, you are, kitten.”  It seems like ages since I've called him that.

His shoulders sag at the nickname. He looks at me with the puniest eyes I’ve ever seen in my entire life, and I know that I’ve won; Jim’s going to the hospital. “Basher,” he croaks, “why haven’t you cleaned up all the vomit on the bed?”

“Remember two minutes ago when you had a knife to my neck?”

He shakes his head.

“Jim?”

“Hm?”

“Give me the knife.”

He half-heartedly clutches it to his chest, collapsing on his side to the bed, as far away from the evidence of his sickness as possible. He petulantly shakes his head.

“Okay, I’ll make a deal with you. You can keep the knife up until we get the emergency department, all right?”

He thinks this over before nodding. I wait for him to get up, but he doesn’t budge.

“Jim?”

“Carry meeee.”

~~

When he’s less delirious, when he’s aware enough of his own body to feel the palpitations and the headache and the weakness, he’s flat out bitchy. He tries to rein it in with Evelyn, but he’s very terse with her when she jumps onto his bed to hug him. He apologizes later, and the two lay in the hospital bed. Evelyn counts his fingers until she falls asleep.

He doesn’t say anything for several hours, but he doesn’t sleep either. He taps Evelyn’s fingers. He counts the buttons on the nurses’ paging device. It’s nearly midnight when I turn off the telly. No one’s watching it anyway.

“Leaving?” Jim asks as I scoop Evelyn up in my arms.

“Yeah.” He searches my face in the dim light of the room. “Not forever, though. We’ll be back to check on you in the morning.”

His eyes flutter. “I’ll find you if you don’t.” He doesn’t sound very threatening. Just tired.

Sympathy for the poor man swells in my chest. “Jim,” I whisper, careful not to wake Evelyn, “I didn’t bring you here to abandon you. I brought you here because I thought you were dying.” It’s not a sentimental statement; it’s just fact. I still want desperately to break free from him and his weed child.

“You’re still angry.”

“I am.”

“Then why are you still around?” It’s a genuine question.

I shrug. “Hedgehog’s dilemma, I suppose. The need to feel loved and close to someone even though inevitably you’ll get hurt.”

He rolls over onto his side, facing away from me. “I wish you’d stay the night.” Not “with me,” just “the night.” There’s an important difference in those two statements, and Jim’s chosen the wrong one.

Quiet rage fills my chest. “I know, kitten.  But, like you said, I’m still angry.”

He scoffs. “So you’re punishing me?”

I lean over him to kiss his cheek. He’s temperature’s gone down considerably, but he’s still feverish. “No. I just can’t stay here with you tonight.”

As I exit the room, he quietly says, “I’m sorry it’s like this. Our situation.”

It’s my turn to scoff. “No you’re not.”

“No,” he concedes, “but I wish you weren’t so melodramatic about it.”

~~

_ July 2014 | Jim’s POV _

I stare at the red flesh parting the stream of hot water.  

_ I have to.  I have to. Wash away dead cells, wash away live cells, regenerate and become new. killsherlockkillsherlockkillsherlock.  _

“Stop scrubbing your hands,” Basher barks at me from the dining room table.  “Evey’s gonna start doing it again if you don’t knock it off.”

It takes every reserve of emotional and physical strength I have to pull away and turn off the faucet.  Boiling and scrubbing the flesh off my hands is infinitely more pleasurable than unresolved thoughts and urges.  And less painful than those fucking awful looks Basher keeps giving me. He has so many feelings all the goddamned time.

Evelyn notices the inflammation on my hands when she takes her seat at the table.  She makes a sad face, then presses a kiss to the back of my hand. “Daddy, don’t do that,” she chides me, feeling proud of herself for being able to do so.  “I stopped, so you have to too.” I hide my hands beneath the table, lest this surface in a therapy session. 

If there’s such a thing as grace, Evelyn is its embodiment.  If there’s ever been a reason to live, she's it.

_ Has anything ever been more redemptive, more life-giving than the love of a child? _

_ Has anything ever been more devastating than no closure? _

Basher takes my hand after dinner, not affectionately or gently, to examine the bleeding cuticles.  He rolls his eyes. “Goddammit, Jim.” He disappears and my mind races and body atrophies. I think about work, about Evelyn’s upcoming spelling test, about washing my goddamned hands, about cellular genesis, about killing Sherlock, about the Behrens–Fisher problem, about black hole radiation.  

I have to wash my hands.  I have to because I can’t kill Sherlock and one of those two things absolutely has to happen right now or I will implode.

“You’re gonna get an infection,” Basher bitches, grabbing my hand again.  He applies some antibacterial cream to the bleeding finger tip, then wraps it with a plaster.  “Look at me.” I do. “Stop doing that. I mean it.”

For a split second, I can feel the urge to pull him to me, to feel his giant protective bulk against me, to nuzzle against his chest, to smell him and touch him, the urge to be loved again.  _The desire to be loved again._ For a split second, the depression melts just enough that it’s like I’m alive again. But if I lean into him, if I reach for him, he’ll pull away and it’ll hurt more than boiling water and steel wool on raw skin.

“Thank you, Tiger.”

He half-smiles at me.  He taps my bandaged fingers, mimicking my pattern of  _ one, three, one, four, one, two.   _ “You won’t be able to count Evelyn’s fingers if yours rot off.”  It’s an attempt at teasing, I think, but it’s still swollen with disgust, perhaps even a wish that it would happen.  Nonetheless, he sighs, and covers my hand to give it a gentle if clinical squeeze. “I’m going to adjust the water heater so you can’t scald yourself anymore.”

_ ~~ _

_ September 2014 | Basher’s POV _

Evey’s little feet are pounding against the grass, cleats kicking up clumps of dirt in her wake. From the sidelines, I can see the glimmer of sweat sliding down her temple. She’s fierce as hell on the football field, and it’s uncanny how much she looks like Jim when she gets focused like this.

I’m on my feet, shifting my weight back and forth, probably screaming, I don’t know. The small crowd of adults watching little kids play footy is going absolutely mad, and I’m apart of them, so I’m probably screaming. Definitely screaming. Beside me, Jim is at the edge of his seat, hands folded and resting against his chin, silent and watching intently.  Evey's games are one of the few times I think Jim forgets he's majorly depressed.

Some bigger kid playing midfielder tries to stop her, but Evelyn swerves around her, maintaining control of the spinning ball that’s probably too large for their kiddie league. It’s all I can do not to shout obscenities at the sweeper who’s dashing up to defend the goal.  I'd rather not get red carded again.

Coach Kahn is shouting for Evelyn to pass the ball, which is stupid because their team hasn’t scored a single goal all night. Probably to do with the whole “team work” philosophy of the rec center, but _fuck that_.

“No! Don’t! Go go go go!”

Kahn glares at me.

Evelyn doesn’t pass the ball. Instead, she makes her move, kicking the ball through the air.

Our side of the field erupts.

Past the sweeper.

Jim is on his feet.

Past the goalkeeper.

I grip his hand, and he grips back just as tight.

The ball collides with the corner of the net, stopping it dead in its tracks.

There’s a collective “Yes!” that shoots up from our side of the field. It’s the first goal we’ve scored all season. Maybe now Kahn will let up with this idea that every kid should play every position. Evey’s a born forward.

I’m giving Kahn a knowing look when I realize that in my excitement, I’ve embraced Jim, and he’s embraced me back. I’m holding him so tight I can feel his heart pounding against me. Kahn pretends not to notice the look, and part of me thinks I should go address his stupid approach to coaching this team. The other part of me is acutely aware of Jim’s body against me.

It’s been a very long time since we’ve exchanged any sort of meaningful touch like this. We’ve slept in separate rooms since the move to Australia. We’ve cohabited peacefully as he’s thrown himself into his research for the university, and I’ve played Mr. Mum, but the physical aspect of our relationship has been almost completely non-existent.

All this happens in a span of maybe two seconds. Evey scores a goal. Kahn ignores me. I kiss Jim.

The world stops. I’ve never had a kiss that just stops the world before. It’s difficult to describe because, again, I don’t have that primal urge to  _ take and ravage _ , but it’s familiar and comfortable and puts me at ease, like slipping into well-worn pyjamas after a long day or sleeping in on a warm Sunday morning.

I didn’t realize how much I missed touching Jim, having him close. When the kiss breaks and the world resumes, I keep my arm around his shoulder, pressing him against me. Keeping him against me because I want him there. The feel of his ridiculously expensive tee-shirt against the skin of my arm, the smell of green apples and chalk tickling my nose, the image of Evelyn prancing blissfully back into position before the ref blows the whistle . . . It’s boring and cliche, but somehow it fills me with something I can’t describe.

I remember Carrie reading _To The Lighthouse_ to me. I wasn’t paying much attention, but the line “ _ the ecstasy burst in her eyes and waves of pure delight raced over the floor of her mind and she felt, It is enough! It is enough! _ ” always stuck with me. It seemed so ridiculous at the time, so unbelievable, and yet, at this moment, _enough_ is all I can feel.

I don’t hunt. I don’t kill. I don’t gamble. I don’t fuck.

I miss all those things.

But this moment, this season of my life, it’s enough. It’s all enough. I can let go of the rage I have towards Jim and Evelyn, I can let go of the contempt for this boring lifestyle, because this is enough.

I may never experience the adrenaline rush of murder again, or the delight of touching a woman again, but this is enough.

My makeshift family.

Evelyn waves to me from the field for just a moment. She’s beaming. I wave and beam back. Jim rests his head on my shoulder. I press a kiss to Jim’s temple. His arm snakes around my waist, almost shyly.  He squeezes me tight.

It’s not okay.

I’m not happy.  I hate what I’ve become.  I hate who I am, who Jim is, but. . . 

But. . .

Oh my God, this is enough.


	28. The Tiger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm sorta operating on the idea that the Moran who orchestrated the terrorist attack in the first episode of season 3 is Augustus Moran. One day, I might elaborate on that, but for now, I feel like it's not something that would mean anything to Basher or his family, so . . . 
> 
> This was once two chapters but now it's one. 
> 
> Everything happens so much.

_January 2015_

“Who believes this sort of shite?” Jim is pacing furiously in front of the telly, practically pulling his hair out. “A sniper didn’t do that.”

The death of Charles Augustus Magnussen was officially confirmed just hours ago, but Janine had texted me that he’d been dead for at least a week. His own newspapers reported it days before credible news sources did--I can’t help but wonder if the arsehole had his written his own death announcement ahead of time. I’m reading through the list of possible suspects, and I have to hide my delight that I am listed among them.

“You suppose the Ice Man did it?”

“It’s either Sherlock or the Girl One.”

“Hooper?”

“For fuck’s sake, no, his sister. Eurus.”

I set the tablet back on the coffee table.  Why is that familiar? “Eurus?”

“Do you ever listen? I mean, I know you listen but are you capable of retaining information?”

“Watch it, James.” My voice has gotten more gravelly since I started smoking again.

“The Girl Holmes. Eurus.  The East Wind. The crazy sister.”

I have absolutely zero recall of any conversation I may have had with Jim regarding a third Holmes offspring. “Eurus?” I repeat.

James flops dramatically onto an armchair. “THE GIRL ONE.” He plucks up a finger for each of Sherlock’s harem as he lists them off. “Adler. Hooper. Mary. EURUS.”

“I vaguely remember that from your meltdown last year.  Was she the one that put those kids up to kidnapping Evey?  Or was that someone else?” I feel cold thinking about the fact that I’ve not been Sebastian Moran for over a year now. I wash the thought away, along with the residual fury I have towards my boyfriend, with the remaining whiskey in my glass.  

“Eurus wants to kill her brothers. It was a bit of a competition, you see--who would kill Sherlock first. I had a decent head-start, what with not being under lockdown in a government facility--I killed him in a year. EXCEPT HE DIDN’T FUCKING DIE.”

“Cool it, mate.” I pick up the tablet. I’m not going to sit here and chat about Sherlock Holmes--not when we’ve only just gotten back to the point where the occasional snogging session isn't infuriating and revolting. We still don't have sex, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m still (mostly?) heterosexual or that I just hate my fucking life.

He gives me a death glare, but I’m too drunk/hung over from Christmas Day to care. He grabs the tablet and sends it flying against the wall, shattering the screen and sending a few bits of metal and wire flying across the floor. “NO.”

I roll my eyes. We go through this sometimes--but his spells of Sherlock-obsession have gotten further apart. I half-hoped they were gone. Obviously, I don’t kid myself into thinking that he’d ever fully let go of the Holmes fixation; but the KILL SHERLOCK ruts that haunt him, cripple him, are less frequent. I’d hoped they were just a memory now. “You’re buying me a new tablet.”

 _Because I can’t_ , I think bitterly. There’s something distinctly emasculating about not working, about spending _Jim’s_ money. Thank God for the numbing powers of alcohol and nicotine.

Something about him completely changes. He slinks into my lap, nuzzling his cheek against mine, almost submissively. “Baaash,” he whines. He begins pawing at my chest.

“Oh my God, I don’t know what you want, Jim.”

“Let’s goooo.”

“Go?”

“To London. This is our chaaaaance.” He pouts, staring up at me with puppy dog eyes.

I shrug. “Okay.”

“Really?” He seems completely taken aback.

“I mean, Mags is dead. Why not?”

He snuggles his head beneath my chin, practically buzzing with excitement. “Find a flight.”

“I’m not your travel agent. I’m going to email Evey’s teacher and tell him she’s gonna be out for a few days.”

He squeezes me. “Family assassination vacation!”

“She’s not going to the actual assassination with me.”

“She’s a big girl.”

“No way.”

“You took her hunting during her break!”

“Yeah, kangaroo hunting and people hunting are drastically different.”

Jim shakes his head. “Not really.” He snuggles harder against me. I half-smile and begin stroking his back with one hand while I use my mobile to email Evelyn’s teacher with the other. “The overpopulation, the idiocy, you hunt them. . .” he trails off, sounding very pleased with himself.

After I’ve sent the email, I try to reposition his knees. “If you’re gonna be there a while, you’re gonna have to move your legs, because you are right on my knife.”

He nuzzles his cheek into my chest harder. “You smell nice.”

“I’m not booking the goddamn flight. I’m not doing it.”

He looks up at me with half-lidded eyes, smiling softly. He nibbles at my chin, which is so absurd, I chuckle. “Jim, knock it off.”

He sits up, straddling my lap, looking mischievous in a way I haven’t seen since his "suicide." It sends shivers down my spine. _Hello Professor._ He opens his mouth and Moriarty’s voice oozes out. “Are you going to kill Sherlock for me, Tiger?” he purrs.

I’m not sure what’s happening. I swallow, clueless how to answer.

“I’d let you, you know. You’re the only other person in the world that I’d willingly let kill Sherlock Holmes.”

“Is this how Moriarty does foreplay?” I try to sound cool and collected, but my voice is higher than I intend.

He laughs this deep throaty laugh while biting at my neck. My body burns at the conflicting responses. Everything is simultaneously disgusting and old hat and arousing and new. It’s been a long time since our first and last roll in the hay.

He kisses me, and it’s different than any kiss we’ve ever shared. Calm. Deep. The promise of something else in the distance, not just id needs and reactions.

“You’re going to kill Sherlock Holmes for your kitten, right, tiger?”

“Jim, I’m not doing dirty talk if it’s gonna revolve another man.”

He grinds down on my lap, his half-interested cock pressing against my lower abdomen. “Basher, the thought of you playing White Knight, coming to kill the big bad detective for me. . .”

“Oh my God, no.”

“Come on, play with me.”

“No. I’m not gonna get you off while you fantasize about Sherlock Holmes.”

His eyes sparkle. “Are you jealous?” His voice is even lower.

I shrug. I’m cool with admitting that, yeah, I am a little jealous. “A bit.”

His hand dips between us, gripping my thoroughly uninterested cock. “Please, tiger? Promise Daddy you’re going to shoot Sherlock Holmes through his goddamned skull.”

My stomach curdles like sour milk at the title of “Daddy.” There will be absolutely no way I’ll manage a full hard-on tonight.

“Do it for me? Please, tiger, please?” he pouts. He squeezes me, trying to drum up a little bit of interest with almost no success.

“Kitten, I’m afraid you’re setting yourself up for disappointment in that department.” I pull his wrist away from my groin.

He scowls at me then buries his face against my neck, humming happily, apparently content to just snuggle and daydream about killing Sherlock Holmes.

I hate him for it. I hate him because as long as Sherlock Holmes lives, I’ll always be his understudy in Jim’s reality. Always on the periphery, _almost_ on the receiving end of Jim’s affections. But if I get rid of Sherlock Holmes, I’m the headliner. Why do I have to compete in this goddamn relationship?  Why does that alien-faced addict bring out the desire to cuddle in Jim and I don’t?

And maybe that’s what I hate most of all. The fact that I’m so bound to Jim and Evelyn that Sherlock Holmes actually matters to me. Sherlock Holmes is ruining our lives. My family.

And I protect my family.

I couldn’t as a little boy, but I can now.

Despite the resentment I have for Jim and his obsession, I kiss his temple. “But, yeah, if you want me to kill him, I will,” I tell him softly.

He squirms in my lap.  “My hero.”

~~

_A Week Later | Basher’s POV_

“Miss me? Miss me? Miss me?”

Behind me, Mycroft Holmes flips off the television. The hard soles of his shoes tap against the concrete floor of his weird underground bunker, arrhythmic and intimidating. I could very well die here.

It had all happened so fast. We got through customs and security with no issues; we were exiting the airport when Jim’s face was suddenly plastered on every screen. _Miss me? Miss me? Miss me?_

His eyes went wide and all the blood drained out of his face. There was no way we'd be able to make our way around the city now. I grabbed Evelyn’s hand and told Jim to run, that I’d find him when everything calmed down. His face told me he wouldn’t leave Evelyn before his words did. I shoved our daughter towards him and told him to get to somewhere safe.

“If anyone catches you, you work for Irene on Moreton Island and you have for the last eight months,” he told me before grabbing me by the nape of my neck and kissing me. It was an oddly romantic gesture--kissing when he should be fleeing.

Mycroft caught up with me, of course. It only took a few hours. I didn’t try to hide, though. If they found _me_ , they wouldn’t look for my family.

And so now, here I am, nose bloodied and likely broken, cuffed to a chair, Mycy’s henchmen waiting for the opportunity to end me. A sick side of me is relieved. Finally, something. I can feel something immediate and visceral and real and vibrant and so close to death. The adrenaline coursing through me blots out the depression of everyday existence, and it's perversely awesome.

I grin at the man in the suit. “Miss me?”

Mycroft is not amused. “Where is he?”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

“Voldemort?"

The Ice Man scowls. "M."

"Are you asking about the Professor? Because I got news for you, Your Majesty, he swallowed a bullet just before your brother jumped off a building.”

Mycroft props himself up on his umbrella. “You know by now that Sherlock did not commit suicide, of course.”

“So you think the Professor did too? You think they just faked suicide at each other?”  I laugh through a mouthful of blood and spit.

He narrows his eyes. He’s contemplating his next statement. I’m an exceptional liar (most children of abuse are, I’m told), and I hope against hope that my thrill at being in danger lends itself to appearing innocent--or at least blissfully out of the know.

I give him a suspicious look. “What is it that you know that I don’t, Holmes?”

He takes a deep breath through his nose. “You expect me to believe that the day you fly back to London is the same day that your supposedly deceased employer reappears on every screen in the British empire?”

“Empire?” I smirk. “You mean a few islands and a bit of Ireland?”

“Northern Ireland,” he corrects, and I laugh.

“He wasn't my employer. I knew _of_ him. We met once when I was discharged, Mycy.”  Holmes grimaces at the nickname. “My dad might’ve worked for him.  Remember? You put him in prison?” I say, referencing the failed terrorist attack that apparently my dad had set up.  One of his minions takes a swing. Pain shoots through my jaw. I taste blood. Holy God, I’m enjoying this. Maybe not getting socked, but the adrenaline rush, the blind, animalistic fury that accompanies being tortured. It’s raw and real, and there’s absolutely zero lingering regret and resentment, just hot hatred and burning rage.

I stain Holmes’s tie with bloody spit, then give him a wink. “If he was alive--”

“If you’re speaking in hypotheticals, the appropriate verb would be _were_.”

“--his big reveal would’ve been more dramatic. And lethal.”

Mycroft stares me down. “And just what have you been doing for the last year, Moran?”

“Working for your old pal Mags, Myc.”

Another punch to the face. My teeth rattle in my skull. Oh, when I get out of here, I am going to tear this minion’s thumbs off his goddamn hands.

“You haven’t worked for him in a little over a year,” Mycroft says when my ears stop ringing.

I smirk and shrug. Mycroft nods to the minion. Something sharp and hot skitters through my body, and I think my vision goes offline. I don’t realize for several seconds that I’ve been electrocuted.

My fingers and limbs twitch involuntarily. I grit my teeth, waiting for the burn to subside. “Not sure what you expect me to say, Your Highness.”

His face is blank as he says, “Again.”

Blinding heat courses through me, making every muscle in my body contract. I writhe against the restraints. Everything goes white.

Jesus, the things I do for my family. . .

“What have you been doing for the last year?” he asks again. He seems incredibly uninterested for someone trying to beat answers out of me.

I shake my head. “Sorry, Mycy, am I boring you?”

Screams erupt from my throat as another jolt of electricity flies through me.

“Let’s try another line of questioning,” he says as blood trickles from my nose. “Why have you been in Australia?”

“Working.”

“For?”

“Pay.”

“Moran, I’m warning you.”

“That’s an interesting way of conducting an interrogation,” I slur. My tongue is numb. “I usually warned the victim _before_ I broke their face.”

Holmes addresses the minion behind me. “Time for a new approach.”

~~

I wake up, feeling groggy and absolutely compelled to sing Bowie’s “Space Oddity.” I vaguely remember the pinch of the needle in my arm as the Ice Man’s minions pumped some sort of “truth serum” into my veins. My eyes try to adjust to the blinding brightness of the fluorescent lights above me, but doing so only makes me even more aware of how much my skull aches.

I sit up slowly, the world circling around me in a not entirely unpleasant way. An attractive lass in a business suit sitting on the other side of the room notices but says nothing. Instead, she taps something on her phone.

I try to ask where I am, but my throat is dry, and my lips are caked with blood. I lay back down, realizing that I’m in some sort of medical center. Beneath my completely naked body is that scratchy paper that always covers beds in exam rooms. I check my arms for IVs, and finding none, try to parse out what happened.

 _“Who are you working for?”_ Mycroft had asked.

Oh.

Fuck.

I have no idea what I answered. My hangover/lingering-druggedness evaporates as panic washes over me. I sit up again, too fast this time, my vision blurring. I have to warn Jim.

My feet hit the cold tile floor, and I have to fight to keep myself righted. Before the woman at the desk can stop me, the door opens to reveal Irene Adler and Mycroft Holmes. I stare at them for a moment, then yelp. I don’t know why--my mouth deemed it appropriate long before my brain even had a chance to consider it.

“For God’s sake,” Mycroft groans, glaring at the woman at the desk, “why is he still nude?”

She gives him a smirk. I recognize her now as Mycroft’s personal/professional assistant. Jim had given me her photo long before Evelyn popped on the scene; he’d warned me she was the most dangerous woman in London. “I forgot,” she answers, looking me up and down suggestively.

I grin. Well, then.

“Hello, Sebastian,” Irene purrs. “Ready to go home?”

No, if I’m honest. I wouldn’t mind being naked a bit longer with Mycroft’s assistant. “Yes ma’am,” I answer before I even remember why I was supposed to answer that way. “Where are my clothes?” I ask the woman at the desk. I lean on her desk, or try to; I misjudge my proximity to the desk. Thin air can’t support my weight, and so I fall to the ground.

“They fell,” she answers coolly.

“Fell where?”

“Down the incinerator.”

I sit up, smiling like an idiot. I like this girl. “What’s your name?” God, why can’t I shut up?

“Elektra,” she lies, and I realize she must’ve electrocuted me during the interrogation. I don’t hold grudges. Usually. Not when I’m high, anyway.  My hand snakes its way to her calf. She doesn’t shake me off.

Adler sighs. “Alas, it won’t be the first time a nude man has traveled with me, though we may have a hard time boarding the plane. Come along, Colonel.”

“No private jet?” Mycroft Holmes mocks the dominatrix.

“Heavens no,” Irene pouts. “I run a small bed and breakfast in Moreton Island. How would I afford a jet?”

Mycroft deadpans. “Bed and breakfasts aren’t registered with the Prostitution Licensing Authority.”

The dominatrix gives him a genuine smile. “And why would a gentleman of your stature be reviewing the PLA? Looking for places to let off some steam, Mr. Holmes?” She turns back to me, losing her flirtatious, I-Know-Things-You-Don’t edge. “Now really, Moran, I have clients checking in, and I do hate to be absent when they arrive. Chop chop, we have things to do.”

Still on the floor, I look up at Elektra. “Can I call you?”

“No.”

“I’m gonna call you anyway.”

She kicks me in the stomach but I might actually be too high to care. Irene grabs the hair on the back of my neck and drags me to my feet. “Now, if you please.”

Stumbling, I follow, winking at “Elektra” as I leave, motioning that I will call her.  She blows me a kiss. Adler leads me outside, and of course, it’s snowing. From the looks of the building I exit, you’d never guess it was some secret place for shady government doings. It looks like an abandoned flat complex out in the middle of a forest. They must’ve moved me after the torture session. God, what day is it?

Another woman I don’t recognize is driving the car, but the glances she and Adler exchange make it clear that their relationship isn’t strictly professional. Or maybe it is, considering Adler’s line of work.

My still-foggy brain cooks up a nice little image of the driver eating Irene out as we drive away. I try not to dwell on it. Sort of. I guess I should say, I think of something else when I remember that I’m still naked, and it’s probably inappropriate to get an erection in front of the lesbian that just saved my skin.

“What happened to Kate?” I ask.

“Witness protection,” Irene answers.

“Aw, you broke up?”

“Izzy, please give this gentleman your coat. I’d rather not have to look at his cock the entire drive to the airport.”

“What if I was a woman with a cock?” I ask, feeling somewhat defiant. I think maybe I’m still more drugged than I realize. Painkillers, maybe. I should definitely be feeling the effects of a broken nose.

Irene smiles as she hands me Izzy’s coat. “Reading gender theory, I see. Trying to understand what you _had_ with Moriarty?”

Her eyes widen ever so slightly when she says “had,” alerting me that there is a chance the vehicle is bugged. I nod back, offering a smile that I hope indicates my thanks.

“No. Trying to understand your clientele.”

She winks. “That’s not your job, Mr. Moran.”

I cover my waist with the coat. “Where are we?”

“Wales.”

“And what day is it?”

“Friday, January 16.”

My jaw drops. I’ve been out of commission for almost two weeks. No wonder my head still feels like it’s full of helium. Godammit, coming down from this is going to be absolute hell. “Am I addicted?” I cannot go back home with an addiction. I don’t think I have the self-control to not have sex with women, not kill someone, and not use whatever bloody drug Holmes gave me for two weeks straight.

Irene shrugs. “Don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“You’re a terrible boss.”

“You’ve a habit of finding those.”

“Sorry, I ratted you out,” I lie, trying to elaborate on the story that I’m working for her, just in case Mycroft is listening.

“I suppose he would’ve found out I was alive sooner or later. He’s constantly invading Sherlock’s privacy.”

I can’t explain why, but I am livid to hear that fucking name. “Goddammit!  Are you fucking kidding me? You’re still in touch with that motherfucker?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Of course.”

I lean up to the driver. “Listen--what’s your name?”

“Izzy.”

“--Izzy, listen, your girlfriend here, she’s in love with a man. Like a legit man.”

“‘Legit’ man?” Izzy scoffs.

I roll my eyes. “Cisgender man. . . is what I meant.”

“Being a transman doesn’t make him less of a ‘legit’ man,” Izzy glares at me through the rearview mirror.

I actually feel a little cowed. “Sorry! I’m sorry.”

“Good! You should be. Fucking cunt.”

“I just said I was sorry, dumb bitch!”

“It’s all right, Isabella,” Irene says, chuckling at my red face. “He’s Catholic. He doesn’t know any better.”

“Well, that’s not offensive at all.”

Izzy turns around to snarl at me. “Oh and you challenging the legitimacy of someone’s identity isn’t offensive?”

“Listen, you vile cow, I used to kill people for a living!  I’m Sebastian fuckin’ Moran!”

“Children, settle down. Izzy, please keep your eyes on the road. We’ve got an entire flight to Australia to enlighten our boy about gender politics.”

And that, unfortunately, sends a pulse of arousal straight to my cock. _Our boy_. I blame the drugs. I shouldn’t be thinking about Irene and Izzy going at it, or fucking Irene from behind while Izzy tongues her clit, or Izzy sucking my cock.

I hope Izzy doesn’t want her coat back.

~~

Coming down from Holmes’ hell-potion is the worst experience of my life. The mild hangover I had after waking up in Wales was nothing compared to the excruciation I experienced once we landed in Sydney. (Adler, as a side note, does in fact have a private jet. Izzy, as it turns out, is her girlfriend/pilot/receptionist.)

I don’t remember much aside from the ice-picks-in-my-eyeballs pain, sweat seeping out of my pores and the fatigued weakness in my extremities. I think I vomited a few times, but the nausea was vastly overshadowed by the migraine.

And. . .

And I remember wondering when my makeshift family would show up. I was actually dreading the bouncing ball of energy and snark that was my Evelyn throwing open the door to the room I was staying in, letting in all the light while screeching her excitement about being reunited with her Papa. I was dreading Jim’s arseholery about being captured, his bitching about how he was annoyed to have had to call in a favor to Irene Adler.

But they never showed.

So, when I can walk without passing out, I find Irene’s office. It’s just as decadent as the rest of the brothel; overstuffed antique couches, subtly lit hallways, lots of glass, reflecting light but never reflections. And it’s quiet. Given the age and architecture of the house, I imagine Adler’s spent a small fortune on updates and repairs and soundproofing the rooms.

When I walk in, she asks with that condescendingly flirtatious smile, “Feeling better?”

“Where’s J--my family?”

She retrieves her mobile, and presses a few buttons. A soft, nearly inaudible sound fills the office. “Shut the door, please. No one saw you exit your room?”

I shrug. “Didn’t pass anyone in the hallway.”

She rises from behind her desk, motioning for me to take a seat opposite her. “As you can imagine, Mycroft Holmes is very interested in what happens next between us. Although I confirmed that you’ve been working for me for the last eight months, he doesn’t believe it. You can’t leave, Moran. Not for a while, anyway. And Professor Moriarty can’t come here.”

I snort. “You can’t keep me here.”

“I do what I must to protect my business,” she says sternly. “I’ve done quite a lot for you, including cancelling a week’s worth of clients to fly to Wales to retrieve you and fly back. Not to mention that Izzy’s piloting rates are simply outrageous. I do spoil her.” Genuine affection slips through the dominatrix mask, her cheeks tinting pink and her eyes softening. “Anyway, you’ll be here a while.”

“No, you don’t get it. J--Addison needs me.”

“No need for codenames. The mobile’s interfering with any recording or listening devices. I don’t keep it on all the time, lest it seem suspicious, but for now, we’ll keep it on.”

“Jim needs me.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, my headache returning.

She smirks at the use of his first name.

“He does, Irene.”

“I prefer _Ms. Adler_.”

“For fuck’s sake, _Ms. Adler_ ,” I spit back.

“Moriarty’s a big boy, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

No, he won’t. He’s a super-intelligent hell-cat child in a grown man’s body who can’t cope with the fact that Sherlock Holmes is still alive! But I can’t say that. I can’t tell Irene--Ms. Adler--that Jim’s neuroses can be destructive and that he can’t be left alone for long periods of time, especially when he’s the sole caregiver for our daughter.

“Irene, it’s very important that I get back to my family,” I plead.

She doesn’t correct me. For a moment, I think I detect sympathy in her expression, but it quickly washes away. “I’ve spoken with Moriarty. He’s aware of the predicament in which we find ourselves. Frankly, I’m surprised he even called me. I would have thought he’d be perfectly content to let you rot in a cell. Or worse.”

 _Fucking Jim_. I feel sick. Of course, the little shit would punish me for this. Cunt.

Adler continues on. “So, you’ll be here, working security for me until it’s safe for you to return.”

“Have a lot of problem clients?”

“Actually, we’ve been having an issue with feral pigs.”

That catches my attention. “Boars?”

She grins. “And the occasional peeping Tom. Mostly, I just need you to stand there and look intimidating.”

I lean back in my chair, pleased to hear that I’ll have something to do with my spare time. “What’s it pay?”

She cocks her eyebrow. “Room and board. Your life.”

“Ms. Adler, I know you’re not that cheap.”

“Free night with one of my girls once a week. Or boys.”

I roll my eyes. “False. Jim’d castrate me if I fucked a callgirl.”

“Or boy.”

“I’m not gay.”

“You’re raising a child with a man, sleeping in his bed. . .”

“You’re in love with Sherlock Holmes; does that make you straight?”

“Touche.” She stares me down. The silence becomes heavier.

“It’s a tempting offer, though,” I admit.  “Jim and I haven’t shared a bed in a long while, if you catch my drift.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

She’s testing my resolve.

She’s essentially offering me my old life, minus the assassinations. Look intimidating, beat money out of people, hunt dangerous animals, fuck prostitutes . . . all the things that I miss. And instead of being excited, I can only feel guilt, because I want these things. I want to accept and enjoy what she’s offering--but wouldn’t a good father and husband (stop it, Moran, you’re not married) be disappointed to be away from his family? Would he really be thrilled at the possibility of returning to the life he once knew?

Despite my best efforts, it seems I am damned to follow in Augustus’ footsteps.

“When can I go back to them?” I find I’m dreading the answer.

“I’d say three months. I’ve got an insider who will let me know. The Ice Man has more important things to do than listen in on conversations in a brothel, though I’d say the voyeur in him enjoys it. He’ll have his team move on shortly thereafter. No contact with Moriarty or his brat, though.”

I grit my teeth. “That’s my brat, too, you know. Watch it.”

“Or what? You’d hit a woman?”

I laugh out loud. “Ms. Adler, I’ve killed women.”

“And here I thought you were a good Catholic boy.”

“I go to confession afterwards.”

“Lucky for you, I keep a priest on staff.”

“That seems uncharacteristic and bizarre.”

“He’s my insider, actually. Pops in once a month or so. It’s a complicated web of connections, but suffice it to say, he keeps me informed of Mycroft’s doings, as well as other political goings-on. Father Henry Peter. The staff call him Holy Pete.”

“Why would Holmes keep a priest around?”

“There are rumors, of course, but no one really knows. Henry knows things, though. Funny how similar his line of work is to mine.” She smiles this evil smile. “People come to us to confess and find absolution.”

“There’s a huge difference between making sure you’re right with the Lord and getting your arse whipped by a woman in spandex.”

“Is there?” she challenges.

“Yeah.”

“Then I’d say you’re doing something wrong.” She winks. “Time’s up, Tiger. Off you get. Izzy’s downstairs in the foyer; she’s got some paperwork she needs you to sign.”

~~

_March 2015 | Basher’s POV_

Being away from Jim and Evelyn is pretty fucking awesome. Don’t get wrong; I miss them BUT--and that ‘but’ is worthy of capital letters--in my present situation, I get to hunt and kill feral pigs and this insanely aggressive bunch of tiger snakes that somehow keep finding their ways into the manor, get to threaten clients who ignore safewords, refuse to pay, or get stalker-y, get to break noses and fingers. I get to speed alongside the Moreton Island coastline in Adler’s Vanquish Volante while I run errands. I get to flirt and be an arsehole with Irene’s girls. I get to play cards and gamble and literally and figuratively lose my shirt to Izzy. (Who the fuck taught that woman to play poker? She’s like goddamn Rain Man.)

It is fucking goddamn bloody great. Really. That first month, I even let one of the girls give me a makeover. I was incredibly drunk, and it was a slow night (Mondays usually are). Oh, and one frustrating/magical night, my discipline and dedication to my Jim were really tested. One of the new girls, a lithe, pale little thing with big hazel doe eyes, had never done a BDSM scene before. Since her client was an arsehole and Adler was busy, I got assigned to aftercare duty.

A beautiful, blissed out girl stayed curled up on my lap while I fed her chocolate and applied some sort of cream to her bare, well-sculpted, very red bum. She was feminine and vulnerable and the opposite of Jim, and I wanted her. I wanted to take her back to her room and kiss her and fuck her slow and gentle.

She didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask, and I had a nice little wank in the privacy of my own rooms afterwards.

And that second month, I really got to be Sebastian Moran again. I drank and smoked whenever I wanted however much I wanted. I got massages twice a week at least because I fucking could. As long as I wasn’t on duty, there were no limits to what I could or couldn’t do. No monitoring Jim’s computer usage, no making sure Evelyn gets to practice on time.

For the first time in a year and a half, I was free.

And then some bastard brought his preteen daughter with him to a session. When Irene told him that no one under the age of 25 (house-rules) was allowed on the premises, he said, “she just wants to watch.”

Izzy and Adler and one the boys had to pull me off him. He left unserved and concussed, and the next week, once I was off-duty, I found that motherfucker on the mainland, and I stripped the skin from his bones while his bitch wife watched in terror. For the first time in over a year, I felt like I could take a deep breath. Washing the bastard’s blood off my hands and knife was like coming up for air after you dive too deep. I’d never realized the extent of which I enjoyed killing until that moment.

I was a predator again.

Unfortunately, February’s also when I begin having nightmares about Jim washing his hands until they no longer existed. They were just gone. In the light of day, it’s humorous, but in the dreams themselves, it is terrifying. I also have dreams that I’m back in Jim’s old flat in Islington, sleeping in his overstuffed bed. Sometimes he’s beside me, sometimes he’s in his office, but Evelyn’s always having a nightmare. I always wake up before I can reach her room, and it’s so damn frustrating.

One morning mid-March, Adler calls me into her office, the signal jammer already buzzing softly in the background lest the big bad Brits are listening in.

“Good morning, Colonel.” She leans against her desk, her arms crossed. “Have a seat.” There’s a long silence in which she studies me. It’s a questioning technique that under normal circumstances, I can resist. In this instance though, I’m squirming in my chair before I’ve ever actually sat down.

“What?” I finally ask. It takes a great deal of mental effort to keep eye contact.

“Everything all right, tiger?”

I don’t realize my jaw tightens at the pet name until she smirks. I look away. Easier to lie (wait, why is it a lie?) when her eyes aren’t boring into mine. “Everything’s fine, Ms Adler.”

“Are you sure?”

I jut my chin in the direction of her mobile. “Is the signal jammer on?” I ask just to be safe.

“Of course.”

“If you’re scolding me about Josiah Amberley, you best back up and rethink all of your misdeeds.”

She gives me a tight smile. “I generally frown upon my staff murdering my customers, but as he was an incredibly unpleasant man, I’ve let it slide. I commend you for your clean up of the crime scene.”

Accepting the compliment with a nod, I press, “So, why am I here, boss?”

“You’re not eating.”

I shrug.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time away from the office.”

“You send me on a lotta errands.”

“You volunteer to do them.”

“So?”

“Why are you so eager to get away from the grounds?”

I’m genuinely confused. “I’m not.”

“Really?”

I tilt my head. “Are you upset that I’ve not slept with any of your girls?”

“I’m not upset at all.”

“Then why the fuck did you call me in here?”

She gives me that knowing smile. “You’re repressed. Stop.”

“Oh my God, woman, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re miserable here, tiger.”

I do actually laugh out loud at that. “No, I’m really not. No, don’t give me that fucking look. I am not miserable here. I fucking love it here! Well, maybe not losing to Izzy every bloody night, but yeah, I’m happy here.”

“Well, let’s see.” She retrieves her mobile and begins thumbing through an app. “This past week alone, you’ve walked the grounds until the early morning hours every single night. You’ve eaten perhaps two full meals total over the course of the week, but have managed to plow through a fifth of whiskey each night.”

I shrug. “I’m a big boy, Ms. Adler.”

She purses her lips. “Very well. Shall we get to the physical, then? Last month, you went to a massage therapist twice weekly for unexplained back pain and headaches. When the massages didn’t work, you started drinking heavily.”

Something in my gut clenches. I try to remain cool. “I mean, I’d rather kill my liver with booze than acetaminophen.”

Her gaze narrows. “You know what I mean.”

A strange sensation in the back of my mind tells me that I do know what she means, but rationally and realistically, I am clueless. “No.”

“Back pain and headaches are symptoms of depression. So is self-medicating with alcohol.”

I laugh out loud at the suggestion and yet something feels heavy in my chest. It’s absurd. “I’m surrounded by booze and breasts, Ms. Adler. I am not depressed.”

“Last night, Kitty and April and Tommy walked past you completely nude. You didn’t even notice.”

“There’s lotsa’ people running around here naked!”

“Why are you getting defensive?”

“Just because I don’t wanna fuck every person on your staff doesn’t make me depressed!”

“You’re raising your voice.”

“You’re not Sherlock Holmes! You can’t just diagnose me!”

“No, I’m better than Sherlock Holmes because I don’t just see, I understand.”

I’m livid. I’m absolutely livid, and I have no idea why. “Go to hell.”

“Oh but that’s not what you really want, Tiger. What you really want is to be with your family.”

“I AM HAVING A GREAT FUCKING TIME HERE!” I’m on my feet, towering over her, but she doesn’t even flinch. She stares back into my eyes, a placid smile painted across her face.

“Let’s take inventory, shall we? You find any excuse to get off the property. Your back aches and your head hurts. You’re completely uninterested in sex with either sex. You can’t sleep, so you drink yourself into a stupor, and when that doesn’t work, you walk the grounds. I’d say you’re depressed.”

The realization that she’s not fucking wrong hits me like a speeding lorry.

I open my mouth several times to refute her points, to convince myself that I am not depressed, that I love where I am, but I can’t think of a single argument. I think about the girl I took care of after a scene; that had been almost two months ago. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have a hangover. I think about the nightmares where Jim’s washed his hands into nothingness. I think about how fucking good it felt to separate Amberley’s skin from his bones, and I realize that it wasn’t only because I enjoyed killing him. He abused his daughter. And now he won’t.

By killing him, somehow I felt like I was protecting Evelyn.

Jesus, Evelyn and Jim have bled into every aspect of my life. Everything that made me _me_ was somehow tinged with them, and I can’t tell if they’re complementing those aspects or detracting from them.

How the fuck could I be depressed with them and also be depressed here?! What the hell had become of my life?

“You’re a big boy, Basher,” Irene purrs. “Use your words.”

I have no idea. I thought I wanted this. I thought I wanted my old life back, and now that I have it, I just want to be with my family.

I had a simple life once. I knew who I was and what I wanted. Love and hate were distinctly separate things, and there was only happiness or rage. Now, everything’s run together. I love Jim because of who he is, and I loathe him for what he’s asked of me. I love Evelyn because she’s my daughter, and I hate her because of her vulnerability. I was, I realize, satisfied to be with them, even if I was unhappy, and it seems so bizarre that that duality can exist.

So what do I want?

“I have no idea.” She’s silent again, compelling me to fill the room with speech. “I miss my family. I love them.” I shake my head. “But I’ve been fucking miserable since I gave up everything! What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I just be happy?”

“Welcome to the woman’s struggle--family or career? Public or private?” she smirks. “Really, Basher, it’s not an ‘either-or situation.’ You can still have your family and be an assassin.”

“I can’t. I have to take care of Jim.”

She tilts her head, waiting for elaboration. I don’t offer it.

“How did Jim fake his death?” she asks.

I can’t help but smile, feeling disgustingly warm and gooey at the opportunity to talk about my kitten. “You ever see _The Sting_?”

“No.”

“It’s Jim’s favorite movie. At the end of the movie, Paul Newman’s character shoots Robert Redford’s in the back, only it’s part of the con. It’s done with blanks and red dye packets. Jim’s gotta lotta background in prop design, too, so creating an exploded brain isn’t too much of a stretch. Gotta few nasty burns on the roof of his mouth though.” I laugh at the memory of Jim telling me how he did it, how he’d gone to Dr. Yama specifically for some oral numbing medication only for Evelyn to insist on getting a check-up.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile in a week, tiger.”

“Fuck that, I was laughing at Tommy the other night.”

“You were drunk. It doesn’t count.”

I scratch my head. “When can I go home?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not sure yet. Henry will be coming by sometime this week to give me an update.”

“Have you heard from Jim?”

She smirks. “He sent several thinly-veiled threats through the website pretending to be a client when I refused to tell him if I’d retrieved you or not.”

Something warm explodes in my chest and my stomach flips. I think I might be blushing. I cover my mouth in case I’m smiling too broadly. “I have had fun here, for the record,” I tell her after a long silence.

“Fun and happiness don’t always intersect. You can have fun constantly and still find yourself contemplating the end. That’s why addiction is so dangerous and damaging.”

For the first time since Adler told me I couldn’t go home, I let myself think of Jim. Since Sherlock Holmes reappeared, Jim’s scent has changed. Whereas he once smelled of fancy-shmancy colognes and exotic soaps, he now smelled of chalk and toner and cheap hand soap and prescription-grade lotion because the poor bastard sometimes loses the war on obsessive hand-washing. And, since I’m being honest with myself, that makes me sad. His face looks gaunt and soulless, a constant reminder that he only eats when I wear him down, the bags under his eyes that he can’t sleep.

I miss him. I miss the old Jim, the Batman-level-of-insanity, good-old-fashioned-villain Jim. I miss the over-protective, sitcom father Jim. I miss the current Jim who is depressed and obsessed and just barely keeping it together. Because Jim is multi-faceted, and all those aspects of his personality are still him, and even on his worst days I love him.  Even when I hate him.

I miss the small stretch of my fingers folded between his as we walk Evelyn to school. I miss the tapping on the counter while he waits for the kettle to boil. I miss the way he counts the steps up to our flat. I miss the way he smiles at Evelyn, like she’s the sole redeeming quality of the entirety of the universe, the way he nuzzles his head in my neck before the sedatives kick in, the way he glowers at me when I leave beer bottles on the coffee table.

Adler claps her hands together. “Well, that’s enough of that.” She turns off the signal jammer on her phone. “You’re excused, Moran.”

I furrow my eyebrows. “Wait, did you actually just call me in here to ask me if I missed my family?” How very un-Adlerian of her.

“Of course not. I called you in here to tell you to stop being repressed and drinking all the time. It’s affecting morale. April was devastated you didn’t notice her new tattoo. Oh, also, stop flirting with Izzy, slut. She’s mine, not yours.”

~~

_May 2015 | Basher’s POV_

I get a text from Izzy to come to the reception desk. This usually means that a stalker-customer is being difficult, so I leave my treestand where I’m hunting these wild pigs. (I don’t know why the hell they keep coming to the grounds, but they do every few weeks or so. And, Christ, let me tell you, they are aggressive. Nothing in Australia is ever mild. Everything is “go big or go home.”)

“Seb,” Izzy says before I’ve even opened the door. The distress in her voice makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

There’s a pale, waify thing of a woman who really looks more like a girl standing in front the reception desk. “Everything all right, Izzy?” I ask, coming to tower over the problem customer. The girl’s eyes bore into mine. I instantly hate her. Something’s wrong with her. Something is inherently wrong with this girl. About her.

She shows no fear.

I crack my neck, knowing that this won’t end without a fight.

“She says she has an appointment with you?” Izzy offers, looking simultaneously terrified and confused.

“Relax, love, it’s fine.” I really do hate to see Izzy upset. “Who are you?”

The girl’s face lights up, and she breathes, “The East Wind.”

Chills run down my back, but I laugh to hide my discomfort. Never let ‘em see you sweat, after all. “That’s vague. What do you want?”

“I know what you want.”

Ugh, the sound of her voice is just. . . wrong. Her face is wrong, her posture is wrong, everything about her has me on edge. “All right love,” I growl, grabbing her arm, “that’s enough. Out you get.”

Before I can drag her so much as an inch, her teeth are embedded in my upper arm. She tears away a good chunk of my skin, the ripping sound echoing in the reception room. Before it even occurs to me to shoot, I smash her head against Izzy’s desk. Izzy screams and the stranger smiles at me with my flesh and blood between her teeth, the skin purpling around the fresh gash on her forehead. The bite is certainly not the worst injury I’ve ever sustained, and her grin is certainly not the goriest sight I’ve ever seen, but it unnerves me, the way Jim used to unnerve me.

She spits the carnage at my chest then tilts her head. “Tiger?”

My blood runs cold. I smash her head against the desk again. She doesn’t even yelp.

Irene bursts from her office and leaps down the steps to her lover’s side. She clutches her close, putting her body between the blood and Izzy’s. “What the hell is going on?”

The stranger answers, “I have Evelyn.”

The world goes silent. My body erupts, and I cease to exist.

I come back to myself to find my knife digging into the woman’s throat, her blood and my blood flowing over her neck and shoulder as I demand to know just what the fuck she’s on about. Adler and Izzy and a few of the staff who’ve appeared stare at the blood that’s starting to pool on the ceramic tiled flooring.

“Colonel,” Adler snaps, “let her go.”

I laugh because I’ve literally never heard anything more ridiculous in my entire life. I press the knife a little deeper. “Squeal you little bitch.”

“Colonel! If she has what she says she does, who’s to say it’s not in danger?”

“WHERE’S EVELYN?”

The stranger just giggles and begins a high-pitched song. “’Neath the hyoid bone is the thyrohyoid muscle and the suprahyoid node and you can bleeeeeed and bleeeeeed all over the floor . . .”

I’m vaguely aware that Irene’s calling someone on her mobile. The police? Good, the more witnesses, the merrier, right? “Do you have my daughter?”

“. . . cauterize the artery . . ..” She stretches her neck to look back at me. “I know where your family is now.”

“Fucking bitch.” I toss her to the ground and take aim.

“SEBASTIAN MORAN!” Irene shouts, and it’s oddly enough to keep me from pumping the strange woman full of lead.

The woman stares up at me, drawing a smiley face with her blood on the toe of my shoe. “I know where your family is now, so you have to leave mine alone.” She giggles again.

“Hurry Henry,” Irene says into the phone and then ends the call.

The woman’s eyes darken, and she slowly turns her head to look at Irene. “What?”

Irene straightens her spine so she’s as tall as possible. She looks like a tigress threatening an intruder. God, she’s so sexy like this.  She stalks toward the woman on the floor, staring her down. “Father Henry Peter knows you’re here, Eurus.”

Eurus? Why was that name familiar?

The kid in Switzerland pops into my hear.   _The East Wind.  The Girl One._

I don’t have time to react before she lunges at Adler. I pull her off before she can inflict much damage. “You tell me where my daughter is, you little bitch.”

She shrieks bloody murder, struggling against me, twisting about like something from _The Exorcist_.

To my surprise, Adler grabs her face, positively oozing dominance as she says gently, “You will cooperate, Eurus, or your darling big brother will also learn where you’ve been.” She instantly stops squirming. “Clear out, everyone,” Irene says to her employees. “I know you’ve plenty of work to do.”

When it’s just the dominatrix, the stranger, and myself, Adler asks, “Eurus?”

I can’t see it because she’s still trapped against me, but I can feel Eurus scowl. “That’s not my name.”

“It is your name, precious. Come now, be a good girl and tell me where Evelyn is.”

Eurus cackles. “I’m not a _good_ girl.”

Adler smiles, one of her genuine smiles that is somehow comforting and disarming. “No, I suppose not, but Henry tells me you’re very clever. Even moreso than your brothers.”

Something about Eurus changes drastically. She relaxes against me. I could probably let her go, but I don’t.

“Can you tell me how you hijacked all those newstations and radiowaves and made everyone think that Moriarty was still alive?”

Eurus laughs again, but it’s less evil this time. “No.”

“It was very impressive.”

Eurus giggles. “It was very impressive. Just wait ‘til the game is over. It’ll be even better.”

“You’re a bit of a show-off,” Adler says fondly. “Just like your brother.”

Eurus’ voice gets dark again. “I am nothing like either of them.”

Adler reaches up to brush a strand of hair out of her face. “No, you’re not, are you?”

“They’re on the side of the angels.”

My eyes widen, and the memory of Jim shooting himself in the mouth on the rooftop comes rushing back. I toss her back to the ground, retrieving my hunting rifle.  “I will fucking kill you, you stupid--”

Adler shushes me. “She’s our guest, Sebastian.”

“WHY DO YOU HAVE MY DAUGHTER?”

“To send a message.”

I aim for her again.  “I’m gonna paint the goddamn walls with you!”

“Sebastian!” The sound of a cocking gun pulls me out of my attempt to snap Eurus’ neck.

I stare at the weapon in Adler’s hand.

“Eurus, did you kill Evelyn?” Adler asks evenly.

Eurus snakes her way out of my grasp. “Of course not.”

“Then where is she?”

“You have to let me go first.”

“Let you go?” I scoff.

“If Father Peter gets here before I leave, Colonel, I will be quite cross.”

“Oh you’ll be cross, will you?” I taunt. “I’m shaking in my boots.”

“I will cut your heart out of your chest and feed it to your little brat.”

Before I can kill the little bitch, Adler excuses me. It’s only when she hands me her mobile phone, whispers the code to me and promises that she’ll have Evelyn to me in ten minutes, that I leave.

~~

Evelyn’s limbs are around me before I fully open the door to Adler’s office, and I can feel tears seep through the fabric of my shirt.

Imagine a glass ball shattering when it hits the floor, the impact causing the pieces to release, gravity, molecules, and atoms unable to keep it together. That’s how I feel. And it isn’t necessarily a bad feeling; just overwhelming. I hadn’t been away from Evelyn for this length of time for at least two years.

I press kisses to every inch of her that I can reach, humming at how complete I feel to have her near, how much more powerful I feel to have her in my arms. It takes me a while to realize she’s sobbing.

“Oh, sweetheart,” I whimper, “tell me what’s wrong. What’s wrong, baby? What happened?”

Evelyn buries her face against my neck and sobs and shakes her head.

My heart sinks. I pull her back and set her on Adler’s desk. “Did she hurt you, Evey? Are you hurt? Where does it hurt? Did she give you anything?”

Evelyn looks up at me with huge, wet eyes and shakes her head again. Even so, I examine her arms and legs and neck. “Did she give you anything, baby? Any water? Sweets?”

Evelyn shakes her head again, stifling her sobs.

“What happened, love? Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know. I got called to the office at school.” She wipes her eyes on her sleeve. Adler, who I completely forgot existed, hands me a box of tissue.

“Here, love, hey, blow.” She clears her nose. Adler makes a sound of disgust, so I throw the used tissue at her. “Who called you to the office?”

“I don’t know. Mrs. Gareth said I needed to go to the principal’s office, so I did. And then there was that woman. And I told Dr. Munoz that I didn’t know her, but he didn’t listen. He said I had to go with her.”

Well, Dr. Munoz just bought himself a bullet through his skull, that’s for damn sure.

“And,” Evey starts to hyperventilate, “and and . . .”

I pull her to my chest, squeezing her tightly to me. “Hey, hey, you’re okay, you’re okay. I’ve got you. Tell me what happened.”

“The lady said she’d kill Daddy if I tried to get away.” She explodes into loud, wailing sobs and it absolutely breaks my heart. “I was scared.”

“You know what, sweetheart? Papa smashed her head against the desk. Twice. There’s no way in hell she woulda’ killed your Daddy.”

Evelyn isn’t comforted by this. I let her cry against my chest for a long while, shushing her and rocking her. I wish I knew more about kids and their psychology. I wish I knew how to make this better.

I retrieve Adler’s phone from my pocket to search the internet for advice. Adler snatches it away before I can type anything in. I scowl at her.

“But you weren’t there,” Evey says softly.

Actual tears sting my eyes, and no amount of confession or absolution can ever take away the guilt that weighs on me the moment I realize that I’ve inadvertently betrayed Evelyn. I’ve betrayed my makeshift family. This wouldn’t’ve happened if I’d been there.

“Oh sweetheart, I am so sorry. I am so sorry that I wasn’t there. I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?”

She shakes her head no.

“That’s ok, sweetheart, you don’t have to. I love you so much. And I’ve missed you so much. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

“Your papa has been miserable without you,” Adler tells Evelyn. “But he had to stay here with me.”

“Is she your husband?” Evelyn asks me, looking terrified.

“No, baby, no, absolutely not.”

“Some families have a mummy and a daddy.”

“Yeah, but ours don’t, does it? It’s got two daddies, right?”

“But you were gone!”

I can’t reason with her right now. She feels betrayed and scared and reason and pragmatism mean nothing to a frightened six year old. “I didn’t wanna be, darling. And I’m never gonna be gone ever again, I promise.”

She squeezes me tight. “I’m very cross with you.”

“I know, baby. That’s fair. But I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you.”

“Kick Dr. Munoz,” she pouts. Holy God, she looks so much like Jim when she pouts.

“Oh, love, I’m gonna kick his ass,” I promise. She laughs at the affected Texas accent. “Didn’t Daddy tell you I’d be back?”

Evelyn half-nods, reaching for another tissue to blow her nose. (And I’m so proud of her. She’s such an independent little lady. She doesn’t need to be handed tissues; she can get her own damn tissues, even if she is scared and traumatized.)

“And you didn’t believe him?”

She shrugs, blowing her nose again.

“I’ll always come back to you and Daddy, okay?”

Evelyn shrugs.

“I missed you Papa.”

“I missed you too. You don’t even know how much I missed you.” Evelyn clings to me and cries some more. “When can we go home, Ms. Adler?”

“I’m not sure, unfortunately. Henry should be here this evening.”

“Where’s that crazy bitch?”

Evelyn chuckles through her tears at the word “bitch.”

Adler shrugs.

“You let her go?”

“There’s quite a few connections at play here, tiger. A lot of cocked guns at a lot of heads. Your first instinct may be murder, but while my business is in the mix, you follow my lead and lay low.”

~~

Try as she might, Adler can’t keep Izzy away from Evelyn. Apparently Izzy is ready to settle down and have kids; Adler hates them. Izzy’s been giving her girlfriend bitter glances all afternoon.

If I’m honest, I don’t like Evelyn being around prostitutes. It’s a whole section of my life that I don’t want her to even be aware of. Which I suppose is a complete turn around from drugging Evelyn with a call girl back a few years ago. When April is on break, she comes to my room to meet Evelyn.

I immediately throw a robe on her, because no, it’s not appropriate to just come into my room with just a bra and panties on. She scoffs. “We’re both girls!”

Tommy is right behind her. I drag him into the hall. “No way!” I hiss. “You smell like sex.”

“What? No I don’t.”

“Yes, you do!”

“But I wanna see her! I love kids!”

“Go take a shower! And wear something appropriate. That means no ‘Slut’ shirts!”

He crosses his arms and calls me a prude. I literally kick his arse, shooing him away.

April is braiding Evelyn’s hair when I come back into the room. “I’ve got some hair relaxer in my room, Evey. Would you like for me to do your hair?”

Evelyn furrows her brow. “You are doing my hair?”

April splashes her silky blond hair against Evelyn’s cheek, and I tense up. “But I could make your hair like mine!”

“No, absolutely not!” I tug April off my bed. “No.”

“Crikey, what is your problem?”

“You can’t just come into my room without any clothes on and try to whitewash my daughter.”

“I’m not tryna whitewash her!”

“Evey, sweetheart, you like your curls and your braids, don’t you?”

Evelyn nods.

“Besides, Jim doesn’t want to introduce those kindsa’ chemicals to her. It’s important that she embraces her natural hair.”

“Jesus, Bash, calm down. I just thought it’d be fun. You let me do your make-up.”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Evelyn tells her.

I beam. “You tell her, baby girl.”

Evelyn puffs out her chest, sitting up as tall as possible. “I’m not a baby. I’m big and strong.”

“You absolutely are. My apologies. But you’ll always be my baby girl.”

“Even when I’m ten?”

“Even when you’re graduating from university.”

“What if I grow a mustache?”

“Even then.”

Evelyn turns her attention to April, who is still wrapped in my robe. “How old are you?

“Twenty-seven.”

She looks back to me. “Even when I’m twenty-seven?”

“Always. You’ll always, always, always be my baby girl.”

“What if I killed somebody?”

I snort. “Evey sweetheart, if you only knew.”

~~

Father Henry “Holy” Peter is a short, balding man with olive skin and pale green eyes that dart about the room. True to his epithet, he wears the traditional priest garb, but nothing about him appears Holy or righteous and I instantly hate him. Inherently, something about him mocks everything that I believe in.

Granted, I murder people and am living in sin with another man, but I also haven’t dedicated my life to the Lord’s service.

I refuse to let Evelyn out of my sight, so around 4:00 a.m., Irene, Holy Pete and myself are gathered around the diminutive little desk in my room, a bottle of Jameson and three shot glasses in the center. Pete helps himself, jutting his jaw in the direction of my bed where Evelyn is sound asleep. “She’s a pretty heavy sleeper?”

“Not really. You’ll need to speak quietly.”

Adler glares at me for my clippedness. Pete just grins. “You don’t like me, do you, Colonel?”

I shrug. “No.”

“Pity that. I’ve been a fan of your work for a very long time.”

“Are you threatening me?”

He shakes his head, his smile fading. “No, no, not at all. If I can ever get out from under Holmes’s thumb, I’d love to come work for M.”

“M?”

“Moriarty, of course.”

“Moriarty is dead.” I check over my shoulder to ensure that Evelyn is asleep.

He downs his shot and refills the glass. “Oh is that so? I just spoke with him a few hours ago.”

“Woah, what?”

“Let me give you, oh what is it the kids call these days, the, uh, the full disclosure. Let’s start from the beginning.  For the last five years, Eurus Holmes has been planning to murder her brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock. It’s a game she played with Moriarty. _Who can burn the heart of Sherlock Holmes?_ Now, I am the priest at Sherrinford, the ‘hospital’ where she is kept. She’s very smart, you see. Very smart. And violent. And bitter. Oh, very bitter. The run of the mill violent sociopaths don’t go to Sherrinford, you understand. It’s for the crazies so crazy they have to be taken off the grid.”

“If that’s true,” I clarify because I absolutely do not believe him, “why would a place like that need a priest?”

“It helps, sometimes. Before an execution one of the crazies will want to confess, sometimes I can serve as a go-between, et cetera, et cetera. They keep me there because I know things. I learn things. People love to talk to me. I was a prisoner there for a decade or so. Under false pretenses, of course, but I stayed to offer my services.” His smile indicates that that’s untrue and he knows that everyone knows that that’s not true.

“So, you’re a double agent?”

“Tsk tsk tsk, that sounds so dirty. Like I don’t have any loyalty. I have plenty of loyalty. Just to several people and causes with conflicting interests. Anyway, Eurus thought that Moriarty was dead, which is really saying something. However, she tracked some information that some hackers uncovered that suggested the great Moriarty was still alive. She tried to send her greetings, but apparently that simply ended with several dead university students in Bern.  I think it was her idea of a joke. She, of course, sold this information to Magnussen in return with the understanding that he would kill baby brother Holmes so that she would win the game.”

“Why would she even have access to a computer?”

“The boy’s an idiot, Mistress!” Holy Pete hisses at Irene. “She’s brilliant! Two minutes on the internet and she can work miracles, piecing together covert ops, planned terrorist attacks, top secret recipes, et cetera, et cetera. She gives Mycroft information sometimes, sometimes she withholds it. She gives him just enough information that the benefits outweigh the risk.  Very, very dysfunctional family dynamics. You understand, what with Augustus being in prison for treason.

“Anyway, she lost track of Moriarty after he moved to Australia, but then she saw the odd purchase for three seats on a flight to London just after Magnussen was shot. So of course, she assumed it was Moriarty, come to murder her brother. Eurus hates to lose though. She’s armed with some footage that Moriarty gave her a few years ago when the game first started.”

“Why would Jim give her anything?”

“Because she was in a prison cell. It was hardly fair to start the game with her completely empty-handed.”

“Wait, so they’ve actually met?”

“Of course! No alcohol for you, boy, you’re too slow as it is.” He pulls the bottle closer to himself, helping himself to a third shot. “To continue the story, she stopped Moriarty from killing her brother by making everyone in London think he was still alive. Of course, he escaped London--you didn’t, but he did, so noble of you--and so she had to keep looking. And she finally traced some information to Dr. Addison O’Neill in Brisbane, which is how she retrieved little Emma there.”

“Evelyn.”

“What?”

“Her name is Evelyn.”

“Oh, I don’t care,” he says earnestly. “I hate children. Always have. That’s why so many of them kept ending up in the well near the church. Anyway, because the “Miss Me?” footage is old, Mycroft doesn’t believe that Moriarty lives. Now, she could tell him that he is, but that means revealing that she’s been naughty, brainwashing the guards, getting in and out of Sherrinford, using the computers there to make things happen. If Mycroft finds out about all that, he’ll take away five years of what she’s been working toward: her freedom and Sherlock’s death.”

“So you’re her handler?”

“I suppose. I technically work for Mycroft, so I can stop her at any point. She’d kill me of course, there’s no doubt, but once I put Mycroft on her scent, he’ll catch up fast and it will all be over. He only keeps her alive because she can benefit MI-6. If she became too much of a liability, he would end her.”

“So, why do you work with Irene?”

“I keep her informed.  She provides services I like.”  He winks at me. “Mycroft and myself have similar interests. Mycroft still sees her as a threat.”

“So Mycroft tells you things?”

“He asks me to do things and I do them. He hates leg work. I find out things in the meantime for my other friends.”

“So why did Adler call you?”

“Here’s the deal, pussycat. I protect Adler from Mycroft and get information to her. I keep Mycroft informed of what some of the other inmates tell me. I keep Eurus’s operations a secret from Mycroft. Eurus wants Moriarty to stay away from her family while she works. So, she threatens you and Jim by kidnapping Eustace.”

“Evelyn.”

“Whatever. What she didn’t know until today was that I work for Adler. So, when she interferes with you, she interferes with Adler, and when she interferes with Adler, she interferes with me, and I can always go to Mycroft and ruin her plans.”

“Why not just kill you?”

“I get her things. A nice Air Macbook here and there. Untraceable phonecards. You know, that sort of thing. I’m the only one technically allowed on and off the island. But it is kind of a good thing, you know. The only reason she could come here is because Mycroft’s moved on. She knew he was tracking your movements, so she was watching him. And now that he’s let up, it was no problem for her to come here.”

“Why not just kill Jim?”

“She tried. Poison. Didn’t work.  Wasn’t personal, though. She’s quite fond of him.  She just hates to lose.”

“When?”

“Last year. Sometime in March.”  I suppose that explains the hospital visit and the constant vomitting.

“I thought you said she lost track of him?”

“Oh she did. But Magnussen didn’t. He wouldn’t give up your location because it was beneficial for him to know where you were, but she made a deal with him. She would tell him all about Sherlock’s dead friend Victor Trevor if he would poison Moriarty. Most likely the food he ate on the flight to Australia.”

I blink stupidly. “Why the fuck does everyone want to know everything about Sherlock Holmes? Seriously. He’s not even the smartest Holmes.  His mum’s pretty smart, isn’t she?”

“Not bad-looking, either.”  Pete shrugs. “I don’t know, Moran. But people love him. I don’t understand it either, but it’s certainly been helpful to me.”

“But this is good news, Sebastian,” Adler interjects. “It means that you can finally go home.”

Warmth blooms in my chest, and I try to hide the smile creeping across my face. I look over to Evelyn, a mess of hair and blankets, watching her breathe in and out. God, she is so perfect.

I turn my attention back to the priest. “How do I know you won’t come after us? How do I know Eurus won’t come after us?”

“I need you to know something, and this is very important. I want Eurus Holmes gone. Out of my life.” He says this with no emotion whatsoever. “Poof. But until she’s gone, I’m trapped under her thumb just as much as she is mine. I want her dead.”

“So you want me to kill her?”

“Well, yes, but more than that, I want to come work for Moriarty.”

“He’s out of commission.”

Pete smiles wildly. “He can’t stay that way for long; especially if Eurus fails at killing her brother. Besides, I have reason to believe he’s been active in certain underground circles.”

Rage runs through me. “What?”

“Small things, here and there. I hear things, I see things. I was just on his campus the other day. When he worked in Dublin, he had a very specific recipe for a blend of cocaine, vyvanse, and a delayed-release lorazepam. He marketed it to architect students specifically. Why architects? No idea. Anyway, that specific product appears to be making its way onto the campuses of eastern Australia.”

“Goddammit, Jim.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, such language.”

“Shut up. What do you want?”

“When Mr. Moriarty is resurrected, I want in on his operations. I want to be first in line. Give him my card, if you would please. I’ll wait to hear from him as evidence that he’s received it. In the meantime, I will keep Eurus away from your family.”

I think it over. I offer my hand. When he takes it, I crush his hand, pulling him closer. “If anything happens to my family, if I have even the slightest reason to believe you’re not keeping your end of the bargain, if I so much as see someone who looks like a Holmes, I will cut you open, puncture one of your lungs, wait for it to fill with fluid and watch you die.”

Fear flashes across his face, but the smile reappears just as quickly. “I would expect nothing less from a family man.”

~~

The moment I open the door to our flat, everything feels right. Cool air that smells faintly of lavender and cinnamon and that brand of silence that is specific to Jim burst over the threshold to greet me. Everything falls into place. It’s like looking at one of those optical illusions where the picture only makes sense if you look at it from one particular angle.

Being here is my perfect angle. The image of my life makes sense with my makeshift family.

Jim stumbles out of his bedroom, still in his pyjamas, and it’s clear that he is well beyond buzzed but not quite at the level of shit-faced. He hides it fairly well, but his eyes are glassy, and there’s a sway in his gait that’s not usually there.

It’s a little after noon on a Tuesday, so there’s no reason for him to be drunk or at the flat, but he is both, and I’m insanely happy to see him.

Evelyn runs to him, clutching the spoils she’s bringing home from the whorehouse, because what child doesn’t need muffins baked by prostitutes? “Daddy! Daddy, guess what?!”

He collapses to his knees, pulling her in for a desperate hug, his eyes shut tight as he nuzzles his face against her hair. “ _A leanbh_. Are you all right?” He pulls back to get a good look at her. The panic hitting him, he begins examining her arms and legs and neck. “What happened? Did she hurt you?”

Evelyn huffs back, “Daddy, that was so yesterday! Guess what I did today?!”

He ducks his head, trying to look in her mouth. “What, sweetheart? Say ‘aaahh’.”

She clamps her mouth shut, and judging by Jim’s smirk, she’s scowling at him. “Daddy,” she warns through clenched teeth.

“What, princess, what did you do today?”

“I got to drive!”

Jim’s eyes find me leaning against the doorway of the flat. “She didn’t actually drive. She sat on my lap while I drove.”

“That is incredibly dangerous,” Jim snaps.

“It was just while we were on the backroads on Moreton.” I grin. “Come here, kitten.” I want Jim. I want him so much. I want to kiss him and fuck him and bite him and make him laugh and hold him.

His shoulders droop, and with the speed and grace of a sober man, he pounces, his arms snaking around my neck, his body pressing against mine. And for the first time, I’m the one who kisses with desperation and need and all-around manic energy. My fist curls in the hair on the back of his head and I can taste the burn of alcohol on his tongue.

I can’t break free. Or rather, I don’t have the willpower to break away from him. You know that feeling when you take a drink of water and then you realize how thirsty you are and then you just can’t stop gulping it down?

He moans against me, and in turn, I guess I get more handsy, because the next thing I know, Jim is gripping my wrist and whispering, “Maybe not in front of Evelyn.”

“I missed you.” I am growling at him, and I feel like an idiot that I’m so overwhelmed about being back here at the flat I hate so much. “I missed you, kitten.”

He looks back at me with wide, almost innocent eyes, his lips wet and red and parted ever so slightly. He’s debating returning the sentiment.

“It’s okay,” I reassure him. Mainly because I’m afraid of what he might say. He might say he missed me too. He might not mean it. I’d prefer omission over whatever wonderful or terrible truth he offers. I kiss his temple.

“I like it when you call me kitten,” he murmurs, falling back into my embrace.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“My daughter was kidnapped.”

“So you just drank all morning?”

“And all night.”

“Why didn’t you just take the lorazepam?”

He opens his mouth to explain, then looks horrified. “I had a reason, but I’ve completely forgotten it.”

I laugh and press another kiss to his lips.

“Evelyn don’t go into there!” Jim suddenly shouts as she makes her way to the loo.

“What? Why?”

“Use the upstairs one.”

“No!”

“Yes! Go!”

Evelyn stomps up the steps. “Fine!”

“Why can’t she go up there?”

Jim snuggles beneath my chin. The feeling of his breath on my neck is so painfully comforting. “I killed Dr. Munoz in there.”

“That’s a good reason.” I kiss the top of his head, threading my fingers through his disheveled hair. “Is he still in there?”

“Yep.”

“How bad is it?”

“We’re not going to be getting our deposit back.”

The fact that he says “we’re” and “our” instead of “I’m” and “my” makes my heart skip a beat.

~~

_Same Day | Jim’s POV_

He calls me kitten and touches my face and Evelyn is back and I’m drunk and the flat seems less dim and for the first time in ages, I just want to sleep.  If I do, will he be gone when I wake up?

_Is this the real life?  Is this just fantasy?_

_Stay, Basher.  I’ll do whatever I must to keep you._

_Please be mine._   
_Share my life._   
_Stay with me._   
_Be my wife._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jim thinks in binary code and 70s glam rock lyrics.


	29. 120 Hours: Day Zero

_May 2015 | Basher’s POV_

When I get home from disposing of Dr. Munoz’s body, it’s after midnight. I’ve made sure that no police reports were filed regarding Evelyn. It’d be a pity if MI-5 found us because Jim killed the headmaster AFTER reporting his daughter missing. Jim will likely have to look over my work, check for anything that will give us away, but for now, he’s drunk and happy to have his little lady back.

I peek into his room. Evelyn’s asleep by his side. Jim is tap-counting her fingers. He must sense me in the doorway, because he sits up, his hair wild and his eyes glassy. He stares at me with that obsessive intensity he has.

It doesn’t scare me like it used to.

“Everything okay, kitten?”

He slides out of the bed, careful not to disturb our daughter. He motions for me to follow him. He leads me to the loo off of his bedroom, the one in which he’d murdered Munoz less than twenty-four hours ago. I’ve cleaned up the blood but the spider-web cracks in the mirrors will need to be fixed in the morning. We’ll also need to burn the bath mat in front of the shower.

My lungs burn with bleach and ammonia. “What is it?” I ask when he shuts the door behind me.

He lunges, his mouth crashing against mine, the burn of alcohol still on his tongue and lips. He’d been nursing whiskey throughout the day, despite having his daughter back. He shoves me up against the door, gripping the collar of my shirt, pressing. Crushing me.

Fierce, desperate sounds emanate from his throat, vibrating against my tongue. He reminds me of a wounded animal, terrified with nothing to lose, lashing out with abandon. I’m afraid he’s going to chip a tooth (mine or his), but he pulls back suddenly, slipping to his knees.

“Whoa,” I say, grabbing at his head, trying to slow him. “Jim--”

He glares up at me, roughly batting my hands away. “Shut up. God, your voice is annoying.”  Despite his best attempts, he’s slurring his words. He tugs at my jeans and pants, bringing them down just enough that he has access to my cock. I groan, not out of arousal, but because I know I’m nowhere near an erection.  Call me old-fashioned, but it certainly hurts the pride when one’s unable to perform.

“Jim, sweetheart--” My explanation is cut short by quick, clinical tugs at my cock. I firm up a bit as he continues to work me over, and when I’m at half-mast, Jim takes no time at all to fucking swallow me down. “Jesus.”

I can’t even enjoy the sensation for a moment because I’m just in awe at how quickly and smoothly my cock disappears down his throat. His throat contracts around me, and that’s when the arousal kicks in. I think maybe I say something, a curse, a prayer, his name, but then he starts to bob his head in this frantic rhythm, and my brain goes offline.

The fantasy of fucking that cute little submissive girl at Adler’s starts to butt into my mind’s eye. I push it away. This is Jim. Jim is a man. Jim is my man.

Jim is choking around my cock.

_“He could almost pass for a victim, the way he chokes around an erection. He so loves to be choked. He’s particularly beautiful when he looks up at you with tears in those large black eyes.”_

Magnussen’s words ring in my ears and that greasy feeling begins to knock around my gut. The sounds Jim’s making don’t help. I grab his hair and pull him back, saliva beginning to drip down his chin. His red lips gleam in the harsh overhead light. In a split second, his eyes go from half-lidded to wide open and burning with rage.

“Basher--”

“Jim, you’ve been drinking all day--”

“Shh, don’t wake Evelyn--”

“--and you’ve been in a state for the last thirty-six hours--”

“Don’t patronize me, Basher!”

“Hey, calm down. I don’t--I don’t want you to do that.”

He groans, rolling his eyes, but he stays on his knees. He goes to mouth at my flagging erection and growls when I jump away from the door, righting my trousers and getting zipped. “Basherrrrrr.”

He turns, crawling towards me, face painted with flirtation and lust. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”

“Jim!”

The rage resurfaces so fast, I feel like I’ve got whiplash. “WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?”

I stammer to answer.

He takes a deep breath and turns on the charm again. “I give great head, Tiger,” he purrs.  "Let me show you."

I get on my knees so that we’re face to face. He slaps me when I go in to kiss him. “I don’t want to kiss you, you absolute scut!” he hisses. He slaps me again. I’m too shocked to react. “I’m trying to thank you!”

I grab his wrists, fury making me squeeze harder than necessary. “You fuckin’ maniac! Don’t hit! Jesus, you’re a grown man; I shouldn’t have to say that.”

He tries to jerk out of my grip but he can’t.

“I don’t want to make out, Sebastian. I want to suck you off.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Some of the best sex I’ve had has stemmed from a state of intoxication.”

“I don’t like--I don’t like the idea of you . . . hurting. Being hurt.”

“Oh please. You murder people.”

“Magnussen told me. About you. I don’t--that’s not how I want this to be.”

“Such a sensitive soul,” he sneers. “I’m trying to show my appreciation but you have to play noble.”

“I’m not playing anything!” He is so infuriating. I let him go. He gets to his feet and stalks to the door. “Where are you going?”

“I literally have one interest right now. If you’re not going to humor me, there’s no point for me to sit on the floor of the loo while you wax romantic.”

I know that this sounds so backward. If you’d told me five years ago that I’d turn down a blow job from someone I loved, I would’ve fucking killed you. But now, here I am, arguing with my loved one about sucking my dick. Somehow, too, I feel objectified. And maybe a little rejected? We’ve not slept together in a year and a half or more--but he’s ready to suck my dick, no other physical displays of affection, at one in the bloody morning. And he has no interest in even discussing this with me?

“I’m not waxing romantic, you bastard. I’m trying to explain to you that your well-being is important to me.”

“Basher, let’s be perfectly clear. I like deepthroating a thick cock. It's not painful or hurtful or whatever the hell you're thinking.  I want to choke until I cry. Hell, that’s the tamest act I enjoy. You want to know the darker kinks I have? Huh?”

“No. I don’t.”  

“I love to be dryfucked. Can’t participate in that too often, because it takes a long time to heal and the effects can be permanent, but it’s _great_.”

“Shut up.”

“Once, I paid Adler an obscene sum of money to completely incapacitate me, then beat me until I was unconscious. Difficult to do without hitting my face, but she’s a pro.” He’s delighting in my discomfort.  Damn, he’s a vicious drunk.

“Jim, I don’t want to hear about any of that!”

“I came to a couple of times, it’s all very hazy, but I remember the oversized strap-on she used. Feeling it split me open. And the sound. Do you know what that is, Bash? It’s a device that gets inserted--”

I’m starting to shake. I don’t know if it’s anger that someone did that to him or that he won’t shut up. Maybe I’m sad that that’s what brings him physical pleasure. “Jim, I’m not kidding. Stop it. Now.”

He steps closer to me, kneeling so that our noses nearly touch. He’s grinning like a maniac. “Would you like to know what Magnussen did? To me?”

I grab his throat to stop the flow of words. I feel like I’m about to puke. He smirks at me as my hand tightens around his throat.

“That’s much better isn’t it, Tiger?” he croaks, his eyes fixed on mine.  He licks his lips.

It feels too much like Magnussen’s video.  I shove him backward, wanting to be as far away from the memory as possible.  I can’t look in the mirror because I know I’ll just see Augustus.

Releasing him brings the annoyance back to his face. I stroke his throat, grabbing his arm before he can slap me again. What sort of fucked up relationship am I in? “Would you like to know what I want to do to you, James?”

His dark eyes light up with cautious interest. He raises his eyebrow.

“I wanna be good to you.”

He snorts and in an instant, he’s gone. “You’re so boring, Basher.”

“I do, though,” I insist as he opens the door to leave.

“Well, I don’t want that, Tiger,” he snaps back before slamming the door.  For the briefest of moments, I think maybe I see hurt on his face, but I don’t know that Jim’s capable of being hurt.

I stay on the floor, processing what he’s told me, imagining what might’ve happened to him to make him like this. There’s just . . . so many barriers between us. He’s kept me out of his recent illegal activities selling drugs. He’s kept me out of his past. And now he’s keeping me out of his bed because he wants me to . . . fuck, I can’t even imagine. Maybe it’s strange but murder and sex have always been distinctly different in my head. Chalk it up to the Catholic upbringing, but murder is business and sex is affection. The two don’t mesh.

Do I settle for the hand-holding, late night snogging, and casual touches? Do I meet him where he is and do the sick things he wants? Do I settle for being Jim’s next bully?

Jim Moriarty is not a good man. I know this. He’s not a well man, and I know this too. I think back to that Christmas he asked me to stay. _“I have no bargaining chip here, Bash. I have absolutely nothing I can give you. I’ll never be your prim little house husband. I have no favors to ask of you. I am literally coming to you empty-handed, hoping that . . . hoping that you’ll settle for an illusion. Because I can never give you the reality you want.”_

Something deep inside me aches.

~~

It’s after breakfast. I’m cleaning up, Evelyn’s in her room building something, and Jim’s sitting at the kitchen table, in utter denial that he has a hangover. Apparently, we’re acting like last night didn’t happen.

Jim stares at Holy Pete’s card, deciphering whatever language or code it’s written in with ease. He shrugs and rolls his eyes. “I suppose I should give him a call.”

“If we’re gonna keep Eurus away from our kid, yeah, you should.”

He leans back in his chair and taps his cheek thoughtfully. I put the last of the dishes away and take a seat across from him at the kitchen table. We sit in silence for awhile. “Pete says you’re back in the drug trade.”

Jim snorts. “Does that bother you?”

“Bit, yeah.”

He rolls his eyes and sneers, “Why? It’s not affecting Evelyn. I blend everything at the office when I’m bored.”

“That’s not what I’m bothered about, you arse.”

“Then what is it?”

“We’re partners.”

He gives me a taunting smile. “Oooh, are we now? I thought partner was too mature a label for us?”

God, he’s such an arsehole. Seriously. “Listen here, you little fuck--”

He cackles. “Oooh, do you mean partners in crime?”

I kick him beneath the table. “Oi, knock it off!”

“Are we Bonnie and Clyde?”

I stare blankly at him while he laughs. “Lemme know when you’re done being a prick so we can have a serious chat.”

“Like a business meeting?”

“WOULD YOU SHUT UP?!”

“My tiger’s getting so big, he wants to have meetings and be partners.”

“James Mori-fuckin’-arty!”

“You’re a bodyguard, Basher, not a partner in crime.”

“You have no one but me, prat, so I’d say you need someone who’s got more than your back.”

He raises an eyebrow suggestively. “And what else do you want, Mr. Moran? You want a raise from the boss?”

“I don’t know why I thought I could have a grown-up conversation with you, you absolute man-child!” I storm off into the den. I should probably go for a run anyway.

While I’m checking the charge on my mobile, Jim strolls up and leans on the sofa, blocking my path to the door. He’s still grinning like I’m the most amusing little idiot in Australia. If we weren’t an item, I’d beat his skull in. I still might. He jerks the headphones out of my ears.

“What?” I demand.

“You have to know that you’re a complete moron. I can’t run a business with an idiot.”

“I have an honours degree from Eton and a Master’s from Oxford, you arse.”

“Well then. That completely changes my mind,” he says sarcastically.

“I’m not an idiot. I may not be as smart as you are, but I’m not only good for murder and being intimidating. But that’s not even what I’m talking about.”

He lets out an exaggerated groan. “Fine. God, you’re whiny. What do you want?”

That goes over well. I grab his shoulders, absolutely gobsmacked. “I’M WHINY?”

He rolls his eyes again. “Jesus.”

“YOU BROKE OUR GODDAMN HOUSE IN TEXAS!”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“You’re an exaggeration! You’re just one giant Irish hyperbole! What do I have to do to be deemed bloody goddamn worthy of the Great Professor James Moriarty, eh? Jump out the window and fly? Break the bloody laws of physics for you? Split an atom? Seriously, what will it take, you bastard?”

His eyes are wide, like he honestly didn’t see that coming. “Worthy?” he repeats back. “You live with me. You raise my daughter. You sedate me and make sure I eat.”

“I’m not an extension of you, Jim!”

“I’m confused. Then why would you consider yourself my business partner?”  He genuinely looks baffled.

“It’s not just business. It’s not just co-parenting. We’re . . . Jim, I love you.” He pales. I don’t pause because I don’t want him to respond. I’m afraid of what his response might be. “And you don’t have to love me, that’s fine. I don’t expect a psychopath like you to love anyone, but I think it’s reasonable for me to expect respect and candidness, yeah? So if you’re doing something illegal, don’t you think I should know about it? Don’t you think I should know what you’re up to? Because we’re partners? Because we’re going through this together?”

His eyes are the size of moons and his face is just as white. “Just because you came back?” He tries to sound mocking, but the bite isn’t in his voice anymore.

I take a deep breath and count to ten. “You have to be honest with me, Jim. Not just for safety reasons, but because I need to trust you.”

“You can’t trust me.” His voice sounds like his soul has completely stepped out of his body. “That’s why I need you here all the time.”

Something about that statement and the sentiment behind it makes my chest tighten. “So, consider this, kitten. If for every action there’s an opposite but equal reaction, wouldn’t it make sense that if you needed me or something from me, I might also need you or something from you? Not in the same way, but just as much?”

Jim’s eyes bounce all around the room, looking everywhere but in my direction. He’s still clutching the earbuds.

I take another deep breath. Taking the earbuds, I kiss his cheek and tell him, “I’m gonna go for a run. Think about what I said, yeah?”

~~

I’m stepping out of the shower, much more relaxed after my run, and I nearly jump out of my skin when I see Jim sitting on the counter by the sink, in his silk pyjamas. “How can--”

“JESUS JIM!”

“I thought you heard me come in.”

“Well I did not.”

He stares at my cock. I grab my towel and wrap it around me as quick as I possibly can. “Did you come in here solely to be a pervert?”

“No. I came in here to ask you a question.”

“Well, ask it and then get out.”

“You remember we’ve had sex, right? None of that,” he motions at the whole of my body, “is new to me.”

“Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I much prefer consensual ogling, not being surprised when I get out of the shower!”

“Ugh. Catholics.”

“All right, get out.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“How can you claim to “love” me when you resent me so?  When you find me so abhorrent?” It’s a surprisingly sincere question. “And to follow up, how can you claim to “love” me when I can’t give you what you want?”

Oh God, my head is too swimmy from the hot shower to answer that. I shrug, shaking my head. “I dunno, kitten. I don’t have an answer right now.”

He licks his lips, his brow furrowed. “I don’t think you do. Love me, that is. No, listen, I’m not fishing for assurances. I just don’t think that you do “love” me. I think it’s a type of Stockholm Syndrome. You’re stuck with me because of your paternal feelings for Evelyn, so you reconcile that by making yourself believe that you have romantic feelings for me.”

I groan. “Jim, I’m too tired to explain to you why you’re wrong, but you’re wrong, all right? C’mere.”

“No, I’m not going to hug you when you’re soaking wet.” He slips off the counter and leaves the room.

~~

It’s a surprisingly hot afternoon for Australian Autumn when the idea comes to me. My mobile’s screen goes black, and I’m too lazy to get up to charge the damn thing. I look up to study my weird little family that I genuinely resent and missed entirely too much, to see if anyone’s available to interact. On the opposite side of the sofa, Jim is flipping back and forth between books and his notes, and Evelyn has dozed in the armchair whilst reading.

A week has passed since the abduction, since I’ve returned to my makeshift family, since Jim and I came to blows about the nature of our relationship. We’ve fallen back into a pattern, a cozy one, a domestic one. And I find that I’ve desperately missed it. It’s as comforting as it is depressing.

On a whim, my arm stretches across the back of the sofa so that the tips of my fingers ghost over the back of Jim’s neck. He side-eyes me, but keeps working. Since he doesn’t brush me off, I scoot marginally closer to massage the nape of his neck.

This isn’t a new thing for us, the soft petting, affectionate touches, but it’s the first time that I’m paying attention, wondering how many other people have been gentle with him. Who else has lovingly touched my Jim? Has anyone? Does he know what it’s like to be wanted for no other reason than love?

Who the fuck am I?

My eyes flick over to ensure Evelyn’s asleep, then I snuggle up to Jim, my lips brushing his ear. He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t put up a fuss. “Hey kitten?”

“Hm?”

“I’m gonna seduce you.”

He cracks his neck, looking up to stare straight ahead.  I think maybe I catch a shudder run through him. “Are you, now?”

“I’ve gotta plan.” Blatant lie on my end.

He frowns, mildly disgusted. “Good luck with that.” He resumes his work.


	30. Day One: Home | Scent

_ Monday, June 2015 | Basher’s POV _

Seduction, I realize, is a lot like hunting. Not to brag (but yes to brag), but I've bedded my share women. All ages (within, you know, the legal range), sizes, races, religions, etc. Hell, it's what ultimately got me kicked out of the British Army. (Of course, on paper it doesn't say, "Slept with Major General's eighteen-year-old daughter," just that I tortured prisoners of war and killed endangered species for their fur.)

I'm a great hunter of women. Hunting a man for non-murderous reasons is new, though. I'm out of my element.

So, I break it down.

_ One, be where the prey is. _

Well, we live together, so no problem there. I’ll start at home. Where he nests. Acclimatize him to the idea that I will be good to him, whether he likes it or not, the pervert. I’ll do that by starting where he feels safest, then spread out. Insidiously invade every aspect of his life. Purposefully. Intentionally. I have to be careful though.

_ Two, don’t do anything to frighten prey away. _

I can’t start with anything too extreme. Frightened prey either darts or attacks. It’s pretty rare that Jim Moriarty darts, and the fucker knows his way around a Bowie knife.

_ Three, lure desired prey. _

And that’s where the seduction lies. Ultimately, I can make myself known in his flat, in his bedroom, in his life. Evelyn does it all the time without even trying. I can avoid situations and discussion that put him off, make him uncomfortable or trigger that KILL SHERLOCK obsession. That’s what I’ve been doing since Holmes returned.  But what's my  _lure_?

Aside from the scrawny addict’s head, what does Jim want? What can I offer him? Besides sadomasochistic sex, of course.  That's the thinker, the fly in the ointment.  

I develop my plan over the course of the following week, accumulating what I need in secret. If Jim notices, he doesn't say anything.

The hunt starts with sandalwood.

Jim uses dried lavender in the den and his bedroom to calm himself. When the KILL SHERLOCK obsession threatens to spiral out of control or when the hand-washing gets to be too much, he uses an oil diffuser to intensify the smell through the flat.  Truthfully, I don't believe any of that aromatherapy nonsense, but changing the fragrances in his life is a subtle way to ease him into the idea of being intentionally pursued. ( _ Don't frighten your prey. _ )

Sandalwood, apparently, is both an erotic  _ and _ calming scent. So, while he sleeps I replace the lavender oil in his diffuser with sandalwood oil and switch it on. I remove the dried lavender around the flat and seal it a plastic bag. He'll grow accustomed to the scent of sandalwood in his sleep, I reason. He'll know that I've changed something of course, know the reason behind it. He'll probably make some smart-arsed comment about it, and I'll let it slide.  I'll have to let it slide.  I will have to keep my temper at bay until I have successfully seduced Jim Moriarty.

I've purchased those expensive Swiss and French lotions and soaps that he used before Sherlock Holmes re-emerged, before the depression overtook him. They've subtle fragrances, but they're distinct. The smell of the lotion (soft vanilla, something floral) takes me back to the years before I loved him, when I worked for him, but had no idea what he even looked like. Somehow, that scent means even more now, because it’s evolved as our association has evolved. I can suddenly remember when I noticed the smell of baby powder permeating from him. I hadn’t commented on it at the time--I honestly don’t think I even noticed it. But now, in retrospect it seems so shocking. The smell of baby powder coupled with this sweet, mild scent as I stood behind him, preparing to assassinate General Shan from the roof of another building. It meant nothing then. It’s endearing now.

I replace his Aveeno hand lotion and face moisturizer with his old (ridiculously expensive) brand. His department store shampoo and conditioner get replaced as well. And lastly, I put the hairgel behind the mirror in front of the sink so that when he goes to retrieve the floss, he'll see it.

And then when morning comes, I wait. I brew coffee, letting the scent mingle with the sandalwood. Jim prefers tea in the mornings, but the smell of tea doesn't permeate the air the way coffee does. And first and foremost, I want Jim to be made aware of his seduction through scent. Scent is less intrusive, easier to adjust to.

And really, the whole purpose of this exercise is to alert Jim that he's being seduced. That I'm purposeful in what I'm doing. That he is the center of my focus, and that this is safe. And that he has the option to say no.

I hear his barefeet pad from his bedroom to the kitchen. I look up from my tablet to see him glowering at me. I smile. "Morning."

"What if I was allergic to sandalwood?" he asks, crossing his arms.

"Then I'd take you to hospital."

His eyes narrow further. "Put the lavender back."

I shake my head in the negative. "Coffee?"

"No," he says spitefully. He storms back to his bedroom and slams the door.

I wait a moment or two, knowing that he'll be turning on the water for a shower any moment now. The pipes start to hiss with running water. A bit of time passes before he storms back into the kitchen, buck naked and soaking wet, the shampoo in his grip. "Is this supposed to impress me?" he snaps, shoving it in my face.

I shrug. "Just thought you might like something nice, kitten."

His eyes blaze. "Don't 'kitten' me.” He hurls the bottle, smacking right in the forehead. “I know what you're playing at."

_ Yeah, it’s not a secret, you brat. _ He’s trying to get a rise out of me. I’m not going to let him win. Leaving the bottle of the floor, I take a long swig of black coffee. _Gotta keep calm. Don't scare him away. He'll either dart or attack._ Slowly, I get to my feet, trying to regain my patience. Jim is such an infuriating little shit with his infectious rage. I pick up the shampoo, then hold out one of my hands, palm up. “Lemme show you something. Gimme your hand.”

He looks at my palm, growls at me, teeth bared and all, and stomps back to the bathroom. I follow him this time, catching the door before it slams. He doesn't acknowledge me. He enters the shower, slamming the fogged glass door. I crack the door just enough to put the shampoo inside, and then I take a seat on the counter to quietly finish my coffee.

“You can’t manipulate me, Basher.”

I don’t answer. The steam of the shower begins to smell like the new shampoo and soap and I can't help but smirk. The smell of milky vanilla and something citrusy and mild fills the bathroom, sticking to the newly replaced mirrors and the tile floors. I let it wash over me, taking me back to a few years ago when he lived in Texas, and I would visit him between layovers.

I remember this one perfect moment where I sat on the steps of the back porch, watching Evelyn dart among the millions of fireflies lighting up the dark blue evening. Somehow, the flickers and sheer number of them intensified the humidity. Evelyn was pretending she was amassing their powers (what a firefly's power is, I don't know), warning me not to come near her lest her powers "evaporate" me. (She’d been learning about water evaporating and clouds and so on and so that’s what permeated her vocabulary that evening.) Jim joined us a moment later, handing me a cold glass tumbler of whiskey with a single ice cube floating at the top. At the time, I was surprised by the act, but I didn't say anything. We sat quietly, watching our daughter run barefoot, catching fireflies. I hadn't realized that the scents of the evening weren't entirely just the dew and freshly cut grass or the lingering heat on the concrete. I hadn't realized how much of that moment, and other perfect moments like it, had been laced with the scent of Jim's myriad of luxury products.

How that scent had been indicative of Jim’s contentment. 

And that changed when Sherlock returned. Now, it was a battle to get him to shower, to sleep, to eat, to drink. I drugged him when he was hysterical; I coddled him when he was marginally compliant. The scent that had marked a happy fatherhood, a happy partnership had morphed into something else in November of 2013. Sherlock's return really had ruined our life together. One day, I would make it up to Jim. For now, we had to lay low.

"I could make you some tea if you asked nicely," I tell him when he slinks out of the shower, still soaking wet. Ah. So that's why the bathmat is always dripping wet. Why can't the little shit just towel off before he gets out?  _ No, it’s fine, _ I tell myself. _ Let it go _ .

He dries his face and torso, then wraps the towel around his waist.

"You might put sandalwood in it," he snips back. His spine stiffens when he spots the smaller bottle of lotion in place of his Aveeno. "Basher, you're embarrassing yourself."

He freezes when I slide up behind him, tracing the length of his arms to reach his hands. He smells like the Jim I fell in love with now. Subtly fragrant, ridiculously expensive. I gently cup his hands in mine and turn them so that his palms are up. The cuticles are split and there are scabs on the heels and fingertips. "This is what I was trying to show you before you so rudely threw a fit in the kitchen." I dispense the lotion in the dip of his palm. I feel his eyes staring daggers at me in the mirror, but I ignore him. Instead, I work the goop into his damp skin. "You got back into that habit of washing your hands to the point that they bleed while I was gone. I thought the change in product might help." It's not entirely a lie.

In the mirror, I can see his eyes are now focused on where my hands are on his. "I was fine while you were gone," he says. His voice is quiet. I work the lotion over the length of each individual finger, careful to avoid the sores where he’s picked the skin or it’s been caught on something or it’s just split from the dryness. One. Two. Especially careful here. Poor Jim. I apply a little more lotion to his middle and ring fingers. Poor, poor, obsessive Jim with his destructive coping methods. Five.

"You  _ were _ fine. You kept it together. Everything's in order and Evelyn's ok, so I know you did fine." I start in on his other hand, gentle with the sore red slices around his nails and the scabs on this palm. I massage in the lotion until the edges of the wounds don't catch, until they feel softer and smoother. "But you cope with stress by scrubbing your hands into oblivion," I tease. I give his hand a squeeze. "This'll make them nice and soft again. Less sore, too.”

"I was fine while you were gone," he says again.

I shouldn't be touching him, but I let myself cheat.  I rest my head on his bare, wet shoulder, meeting his eyes in the mirror. I can smell the new shampoo and soap on him, as well as the faint scent of his skin. "No one said you weren't. I just don't like to see you hurt."  

I let him go to grab his robe from the counter and wrap it around his shoulders. He continues to stare at his hands, fingers brushing over the damaged skin.

“Do you want some tea?” I ask him again.

“Don’t put anything in it. I don’t care how sexy you think it might be.”

Jim doesn’t bitch about the hair gel, but he doesn’t express gratitude about it either. Instead, when he comes out of the loo, smelling and looking like the Professor of the Underground, he asks, “You couldn’t get the dye too?” He motions to the gray around his temples. “Or it just never occurred to you?”

I debate dousing the ingrate with the boiling water in the kettle. “If you don’t want it,” I tell him, trying to keep my tone even, “I’ll be glad to use it.”

He takes his seat at the table. Something in his posture feels more like Moriarty. “Hah, pearls before swine.”

“Dick.”

He smirks at me. Maybe it’s my imagination, but his face looks brighter, the skin around his eyes more supple, less wrinkly. He’s experimentally rubbing his hands together, like he’s trying to get used to the feeling of moisturized, resilient skin. “Tea,” he orders.

I give him a challenging look.

“You want to seduce me, don’t you?”

“Manipulative little fucker.”

“What’s seduce mean?” Evelyn asks.

Neither of us had heard her come in. We exchange wide-eyed glances. “You’re the professor,” I tell him before backing out of the kitchen.

~~

While Jim is at the university and Evelyn is at school, I get a shower. I'm tempted to use Jim's fancy-schmancy soaps and hair products, but, again, I'm trying to lure my prey to me. Part of hunting wild boar was using heat pheromones to bring them closer.

_ Great idea. I'll pee in Jim's bed. _

I don't, of course, but after my shower, while my hair is still sopping wet and my aftershave still stings, I flop onto the center of Jim's bed and sleep. If he notices the change in scent at all, he doesn't say anything when he goes to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm considering writing these scenes from Jim's POV as well. Thoughts? If any?


	31. Day Two: Sounds | Voicemail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basher's Playlist for Jim:
> 
> Peel Me A Grape by Diana Krall  
> Twilight Time by The Platters  
> Unforgettable by Nat King Cole  
> Something Stupid by Frank Sinatra  
> Songbird by Fleetwood Mac  
> I Would Be Your Slave by David Bowie  
> Waiting for the Train to Come in by Peggy Lee  
> I Want to Hold Your Hand by The Beatles
> 
> I think, like, in my head, Basher likes jazzy/bluesy songs.

Rain _taptaptaps_ against the window, muting the morning noise of the world outside the flat. I've just come in from my morning run. The damp has seeped into my skin and penetrated my bones, and the sound of the rain beating against the structure of our home only worsens the chill. It's a very London morning. I hate it.

The flat still smells like sandalwood. Jim didn't replace the oil with his dried lavender while I slept. He didn't turn off his diffuser. I take this as a good sign. He's not explicitly playing along with the hunt but he's not putting a stop to it either. The expensive bath products have remained in the shower and on the counter in the loo. He's also slept through the night, a first since I returned from Adler's. (The paranoid, protective Papa in me is acutely aware of every sound in the flat, especially at night, so I know when Jim's up at 3:00 in the morning to check on Evelyn, to check on me, to make sure the doors are locked.)

Sometimes, hunters have to lure their prey (usually poultry) with sounds. I don't hunt birds that often, and frankly, I'm not big on hunting anything in the cervidae family. It never seems quite fair, hunting something that's already on the bottom of the food chain. Not that I haven't done it, of course, but this tactic's particular introduction was a bit harder to concoct and enact.

Once I've changed into dry clothes and slipped into a sweatshirt (because I am fucking freezing, why the fuck does Jim keep the flat so cold?), I creep into Jim's room, laying atop the covers of his bed, careful not to wake him. His alarm will go off soon, and I'll silence it as soon as it does, and then I'll begin phase two of the hunt.

I watch him sleep, pleased to see that he's not grinding his teeth, that his mouth is open and he's taking deep, even breaths. I want to brush back his hair that sleep and hair gel has spiked into every direction. He looks like a cactus. He'll probably get bitchy about my presence. I have to brace myself for the inevitable backlash. Jim is bizarre, really, just a massive walking contradiction. He wants attention but he doesn't want to receive attention. He wants me around but he wants me to leave him alone. He wants expensive things but he doesn't want to be given expensive things. "I'm so changeable," is his explanation, but I can't help but wonder if the little shit isn't just insecure.

Oh well. If there's one thing Jim hates, it's me trying to understand him.

_Bzzzzt_

I reach for his phone just as he does. He groans a little when he puts together that I'm beside him. "Just hit snooze," he mumbles, snuggling deeper beneath the sheets.

My lips next to his ear, I say gently, "Kitten, it's time to wake up."

"Snooze," he repeats.

"Poor sleepy Jim," I breathe against the shell of his ear. He grumbles and throws the comforter over his head. "Don't know why you're so sleepy, you slept for ten hours."

He throws the blankets off to roll over and glower at me. "How long have you been in my bed?"

"Not long. Five minutes."

"What happened to your conviction about consensual ogling?"

"I wasn't ogling you. I was waking you up."

"Well, you failed. I'm going back to sleep."

I stay another seven minutes, listening as his soft, even breathing resumes. When the seven minutes are up, I get up to open his curtain, the sound of rain pelting the window intensifying. He groans again as the gray light of the overcast sky blankets his face. I kneel down beside his bed so that we're face to face. "Come on, handsome, I got you a nice surprise while I was out this morning."

"It better be hair dye."

Of course, it's not hair dye. It's a cinnamon roll. Still in his robe (and sopping wet, Jesus Christ, why can't he just dry off before he gets out of the goddamn shower?!), he walks into the kitchen and shoots me an annoyed glance when he sees it. The scent of the luxe bath products wafts over to me. Again, a good sign, even if he is being a little bitch. "Did you get one for Evelyn too?" he snaps.

Jim is very particular about Evelyn's diet. She can only have sugary breakfasts on special occasions and Sundays. It's Tuesday. But Evelyn's sweet tooth is a force to be reckoned with, and there's nothing as humbling as losing a fight with a seven-year-old. "Of course I got her one. I'm not an idiot."

The rain continues the rapping against the window. In my head, I keep hearing Vincent Price's rendition of _The Raven_ that Carrie used to play on her walkman.

_“While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,_

_As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door._

_“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—_

_Only this and nothing more.”_

Jim holds up the cinnamon roll, unimpressed. "Is this part of the seduction as well? Calorie-heavy treats for breakfast? How ever did you keep the girls away?" Condescension oozes from his lips.

_Stop being such a dick, Jim, and eat your damn cinnamon roll._

"Tasty treats are for Thursday," I answer with a smile, even though I want to smash his ungrateful face with a plate. I lean across the table, using a lower register to say, "This is just for _me_.  I just like watching you lick the icing off the top, savoring every little bit of the sweetness."

"I don't appreciate euphemisms in the kitchen, Basher." His ears have turned pink, though.

I lean in closer, feeling smug. "It's not a euphemism. I legitimately like seeing you enjoy things. You have a very . . . " what's the word? Sweet? Cute? Lovely? These are not words that I would use to describe Jim. ". . . endearing smile when you like something. It's very hyper-focused. What I love about you, Jim, is that you're never in the middle about anything. And when you grin after licking all the icing off a cupcake or a cinnamon roll or a doughnut, it's really sort of adorable. All mischievous and pleased with yourself. Like you know you shouldn't've done it, but you did, and you don't give a damn. I like that look on you."

He averts his eyes, his cheeks reddening as I talk. I think he likes it when I talk in a lower register. I think maybe that's why he got fixated on Sherlock Holmes: that deep, rumbly voice. Probably some weird primitive biological thing. I remember reading something about deep voices being tied to sexual fitness in uni. Guess I'll have to factor that into today's trap-laying.

God, when he blushes, though, I just want him. It's hard to express, really, because it's not like I want to just fuck him -- I want to hold him and kiss him and provide that emotional and physical intimacy that I did with girlfriends (and whores) before him. I keep the desire to touch at bay, though. That's for Friday.

Evelyn stomps into the kitchen, still mad at me for waking her up. (I don't know why--we do this every morning. It's not like it's a surprise.) I live with two drama queens who, for whatever reason, I positively yearn to appease.

"Good morning, Evey."

She glares at me, looking just like Jim. "I'm ignoring you," she tells me. She gasps when she sees Jim taking a bite of his cinnamon roll. "WHY DOES HE HAVE ONE? IT'S NOT SUNDAY!"

Through a mouthful, Jim says, "Papa didn't want to bring you one."

I kick him under the table. "That is a lie, Evey."

"So I have one?" she asks in a soft, dangerous tone.

"Yes, you have one. Because I went out in the rain to get one for you.  Because I love you. And you’re spoiled."

She flashes this precious, angelic smile and wraps her arms around me. "Thank you, Papa. You're the best Papa in the world." I know that she's manipulating me, but I enjoy hearing it, so I don't correct her. "Can I have coffee, too?" Ah, the purpose of the manipulation.

"Absolutely not," Jim answers.

"Of course, baby girl." Jim shoots me a murderous look. I can't pretend not to notice it because I can't stop grinning at his irritation.

She purses her lips and puts her hands on her hips. "I am not a baby."

"You're absolutely right," I agree.

"And I can have coffee?"

"No!"

I give Jim a pointed look, lowering my voice again. "I told her she could, kitten."

He stiffens, looking incensed, but says nothing, so I get up to make coffee for Evelyn and myself.

I lay on his bed while he finishes getting ready for work, mostly to annoy him, but also to make sure his bed maintains my scent. I want my presence to be familiar and safe for my Jim. Which is weird because I also want to piss him off.

The scent of expensive hairgel follows in his wake as he whisks from the toilet to the full-length mirror to look himself over. I'm pleased to see his vanity returning. He seems more like himself. He tosses a crumpled piece of paper at me. "Make yourself useful."

_Wella Koleston Permanent Creme Hair Color Darkest Brown Natural_

"What's this?"

"Dye. If you're going to obsess about my grooming habits, you might as well go all the way."

I ball the paper back up and toss it back at him. He shoots me a dirty look over his shoulder, then continues fixing his hair in the mirror. I pad over to him, careful not to touch him. I hover behind him, mere centimeters away from his neck, my mouth nearly brushing his ear. "I told you, I like that bit of grey."

He can't hide the shiver that runs down his spine. "Don't overdo the "seductive voice" bit, Bash. How will you get your way if I get desensitized?" He's trying so hard to be snarky. It's precious.

"Guess I'll have to use it wisely, won't I, kitten?" In the mirror, I can see the blush creeping from his cheeks to his neck. I look over his reflection and let loose a small, pleased sound. "I do, though. I like the gray. Makes you look intellectual. And then I can say, 'Oh look, there's my oh-so-smart boyfriend. Isn't he handsome with his black doe eyes and cheeky grin?' I'm tempted to keep you home so no one snatches you up." I flash a lascivious grin at his reflection.

He leans back against me, a tiny sound coming from his mouth and something instantly snaps. I growl and snake my arms around his waist, pressing him firmly against me. I kiss the back of his neck, feeling the hairs rise and his body shudder. I let him go, removing myself from temptation. Jim smirks at me. "It's been, what, 30 hours since you started this game, and I've seduced you in less than five minutes."

 _Prick. I'm not the one quivering and blushing bright red._ I don't let him see my aggravation. Instead, I give him an exaggerated pout. "Be nice, Jim. I've never had to seduce a man before. It's my first time."

He swallows, lips closed tightly. I crawl back into his bed. "I'll see you when you get home, kitten."

~~

_10:55 a.m._

"Are you ignoring me, kitten? It's rude to ignore my call. I wonder if you're trying to upset me, see if you can get me to do some of those terrible things you paid Adler to do to you. Oh well, no matter.  I'll never do what she or Magnussen did to you.

"I've been laying in your bed, listening to the rain fall. I hate rainy days. We should move to Rajasthan, Jim. It's warm and dry.

"You know what I've been thinking about? That time in Switzerland. I didn't know I loved you then. I wish I could've comforted you better. There's something very romantic about cuddling while snow falls outside. I could've brought you home from the hospital and laid you out on the sofa. You were so tired, exhausted from worrying. Who could blame you? Could've told you everything would be okay. Evelyn was safe. Kissed you properly.

"I've also been thinking about that night in Texas, too. It was before Sherlock came back, before I had to fight for your affection. It was nice, pulling you into my lap, feeling the weight of you against my thighs and my cock. Chasing your tongue with mine. If I'd known how sensitive your nipples were then, I would've toyed with them all night. Maybe we can try again tonight, kitten.  If you ask.

"I'll pull you into my lap and kiss you and tease your nipples until your hard and then maybe I'll try to go down on you. I've never performed oral sex on a man. But I want to, on you. Just you. I want to make you whimper and squirm. Not in pain, though. I want to make you feel good all over, Jim. I want to be good to you, kitten. Let me? Please?"

~~

12:32 p.m.

"Me again, kitten. I guess you're doing a presentation. Or you've got your phone on silent. Or you're ignoring me. Tsk, tsk. Don't tease your Tiger."

"I've been in your bed most of the day. Dozing in your bed. Thinking of you. Maybe I was dreaming, even. And I've got a confession to make. I've been very naughty, touching myself thinking of that time we had sex. Specifically, how you masturbated, so frustrated that I was going so slow, so gently. I was afraid you'd hurt yourself. I had to pin you down so you'd behave. You should let me handle you, kitten. It'd be agonizingly slow. That's how I touch myself, you know. Bringing a certain level of self-discipline to masturbation can do wonders, sweetheart. I'd show you if you'd ask. I'll see you when you get home, love."

~~

1:43 p.m.

"I've been hard on and off for the last two hours. Maybe I'll actually come on your bed. But then I'd have to change the sheets. I hate doing that.

"I've been reading about prostate stimulation, since you won't return any of my calls. I've been wondering if that's something you enjoy, or if you just enjoy painful penetration. I'd like to take you over my lap and experiment. See if all this nonsense about multiple male orgasms has any truth to it. Just gently massage you from the inside. Nothing rough, of course. You'd probably bitch the whole time. I want to be gentle with you, Jim. The thought of making you come over and over again is very appealing. Would you let me, kitten? Would you let me be gentle with you inside and out, over and over again?"

~~

"Evelyn just told me she's too old for bedtime books." I flop down in the arm chair, feeling dazed. "She's seven."

Jim frowns. "It's probably that Jenny girl in her class. She told Evelyn she was too old to be sleeping with her parents, even if she did have a bad dream."

"I'll fucking murder that kid."

"You were in there a while, though."

"Yeah, I told her she had to read to me so that I could get to sleep. So, I just learned about rats and the black plague."

"That was clever of you."

I think that's the first time Jim's ever given me a sincere compliment. It makes me smile. My guts feel all warm and gooey. It's cliched and stupid, but it's true nonetheless. "Is she too old, though? At what age do we stop doing bedtime reading?"

"According to recent studies, eleven."

Thank God. I like our nightly routine of bedtime science books and the occasional fairy tale. I don't want to impede her growth, of course, but I don't want to rush it either. My sweet disaster-waiting-to-happen baby girl. "Well Jenny can go fuck herself. Just 'cause her parents have given up on her useless arse doesn't mean she has to bully Evelyn."

Jim laughs at that. I feel his eyes on me. Waiting.

Unfortunately, I will be disappointing him, at least somewhat. Like I said, unless he asks, touch is for Friday, and it's only Tuesday night. I grab the remote from the coffee table, turning on the playlist I titled "For Jim."  (Full disclosure: Evelyn had to show me how to sync my iphone to the television and speakers.  I can kill a man from a mile away but I can't figure out how to enable bluetooth on my phone.)

Diana Krall's "Peel Me a Grape" is the most Jim song I've ever heard. There's a chance that I'm projecting, but he can be just as bratty and demanding as our daughter, and a song about pampering, accompanied by mostly bass and a piano is much in tune with my ridiculous boyfriend. But I think some of my truth spills into the song.

_Cut me a rose, make my tea with the petals_   
_Just hang around, pick up the tab._   
_Never out think me, just mink me_   
_Polar bear rug me, don't bug me_   
_New Thunderbird me, you heard me_

He turns and puts his feet on the sofa so that he's looking right at me. "If you must know, I couldn't take your calls because I was meeting with grantors," he offers out of the blue.

I smirk. "So you did get my voicemails."

"Yes. Should I change my linens?"

"Already did." My answer is intended to be suggestive.

"You are disgusting."

"But infinitely more relaxed than you." I wink at him.

His lips thin into a tight line.  "Were you thinking of me or of Irene's girls?"

The question guts me.  "I can promise you, kitten, I would never think of anyone else while masturbating in your bed."

He tries to hide it but I can tell that soothes him.  "Such a romantic."

We're silent for a long moment. I can't explain it, but I can tell that he wants me to make a move. I think if I asked him, he'd let me take him to bed. Or at least make out for a little bit. But this doesn't end with me asking; it ends with him asking me. With his permission to be lovingly and gently touched. I want him to legitimately want my kindness, love, and all the saccharine feelings I have for him. In other words, I don't want him to settle for sweet caresses and intimate kisses because he's feeling randy. I want him to crave being handled properly. Sweetly. Like a lover, not a tool for sexual climax.

I feel sick again as the question of who made him like this bounces around my head.

The Platters' "Twilight Time" is up next. I move from the armchair to the sofa, close to him, but not touching. I lean in close, like I'm going to kiss him.  "You know something, kitten?"

His face is starting to pink again. His eyes are half-closed, watching my mouth. It almost breaks me, but I stand my ground. "Hm?"

"I really missed you while I was gone."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm. I thought having my old life back would be great, but you weren't there and Evelyn wasn't there, and I hated it. I worried, too. Worried that you weren't eating or that you weren't sleeping or that you would go after Sherlock on your own and get yourself killed. But you were fine without me."

He barely opens his mouth, and I think maybe he'll contradict me. He starts to pick at a scab on his palm, evidence that he wasn't "fine." He had to resort to old, damaging habits. But we all do that, don't we? When things get rough, we fall back into bad habits because they bring us temporary comfort. I drank and smoked _a lot_ while I was at Irene's. I can't fault him for it. He did well, considering.

"Don't do that, sweetheart."

His hands drop to his side.

"I love you, Jim."

He sighs. I don't know what it means. I have to be okay with that. I have to be okay with Jim not loving me because he's Jim. It's a miracle that he loves Evelyn; I can't expect more.

"I love you, and I missed you, and I'm glad to be back with you," I confess. I don't intend for sadness to linger in my words, but it does. I try to offer him a sincere smile, but I'm starting to feel blue. "Good night, handsome."

Once I'm settled in my bed, Jim texts me: "It’s nice having you back."


	32. Day Three: Sight | Public

_ Wednesday | Basher’s POV _

I keep up the aromatherapy bit, replenishing the diffuser and even adding a few vases of sandalwood stick diffusers in other rooms in the flat. I wake Jim in the morning with soft words and a deep voice and play light jazz while he breakfasts and Evelyn screams about waking up. (Seriously, child, every goddamn morning?!) I compliment him until he blushes. Originally, I'd planned to spend the morning in my boxers to give Jim a rise (no pun intended), but with Evelyn around, it didn't seem appropriate. And maybe nudity is a bit too obvious at this stage in the game. I'm seducing him, not hurling myself at him.

The idea for flowers came last week while I was walking Evelyn to school.

_ "What do you think would make Daddy happy?" I asked her. _

_ "Me." Well, at least she's secure in the knowledge that she's loved. _

_ "Besides that." _

_ "I don't know. Ice cream." _

_ "No, that makes you happy." _

_ "Well, my teacher's boyfriend brings her flowers sometimes, but it's probably too late for that." _

_ "Why is it too late?" _

_ "You already have a kid," she told me, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You don't bring flowers when you have a kid!" _

_ "Is that how it works?" _

_ "Yup. A boy brings you flowers and then you have sex and then you have a baby." _

_ I hate that Jim's already given her the sex talk, but whatever. He thinks he knows best. I'd rather her find out about sex the old-fashion way, at recess with older kids with lad mags. Well, maybe not with lad mags. How did Carrie find out about sex? It certainly wasn't from our parents. _

_ "I never brought your Daddy flowers." _

_ "That's probably what's wrong with him." Her tone was so matter-of-fact, I couldn't help but laugh. She gave me a cool look and continued on. "That's my diagnosis." _

I'd had a long, painful conversation with the florist the following day. All part of the prep work of the hunt, I suppose. Usually, though, the prep work is packing, checking the weather and winds, and so on. Not explaining to the snooty mini-van mom that I'm trying to seduce my boyfriend. (At one point, she thought I was trying to drug Jim through flowers. I'm not always great at explaining what I need.)  The florist warned me to never come back. She's not proud of this "piece." 

Jim is very surprised when he flips on the lights to his office and sees me in his chair, my feet propped up on his desk. He looks like he could murder me. It's just for a second though, because as soon as his brain registers the Zegna suit and LK Bennett shoes, he's baffled. "Why on Earth are you not wearing a tie?"

"Ties aren't my style."

"You're too old for the casual look, Basher. If you're going to wear a luxury suit, you need to commit."  He motions to the top three buttons, all undone. That's not by chance, of course. Call me a slut, but I thought Jim would respond well to some skin, and I already kept my clothes on through breakfast.

"Says the professor with the gray hairs."

His eyes flash. Before he can continue to bitch, I retrieve the flowers hidden beneath his desk. "I got you something."

Coriander and jasmine dot the negative space between light blue anemones and white honeysuckle. The arrangement sits in a slim, smooth, black vase, a light blue bow tied around the top lip.  It smells soft and sweet with notes of citrus, much like he does. I think it's a nice arrangement. It's maybe a bit muted, but it suits Jim, I think. And it says what I want it to say. It's pure coincidence that the anemones match my suit. 

His eyes bounce back and forth between the arrangement and me. I keep my face blank. He wants to know if I know the meaning behind those plants or if it's just chance, but he doesn't want to ask, and I do my best to keep my body language silent. Not to give anything away.  If he wants anything, I reason, he'll have to ask. 

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes look everywhere but at me. It's hard to tell in the fluorescent lighting of his office, but I think he's blushing again. "Flowers? Does this mean we're going steady?" The malice is almost completely absent from his tone. He just sounds playful. It's not the first time I wonder if he's using humor to mask insecurity. It's impossible to tell with Jim. Impossible for me, at least.

Maybe that's why I hate the Holmes' boys so damn much; they can read Jim infinitely better than I can. It's not fair that the two people in the world who can understand him want to kill him, but the only person in the world who wants to protect him is clueless. Well, not clueless. I'm not a total idiot.

I imitate John Travolta from  _ Grease _ .  "Yeah, you can wear my letter jacket and my classring, if you want."

Beaming bashfully, he takes the flowers and knocks my feet off his desk. "Get out of my chair."

I don't. Instead, I stare him down.  "Do you have time for lunch?"

He shakes his head. "No, some of us have jobs and responsibilities."

Damn, he knows how to push my buttons. Being a trophy husband (not that we're married) is the fucking worst, and I hate that everything I do for Jim, everything I do for Evelyn, and everything I do for myself is paid for by my fucking emotionally unstable masochist ex-employer.  _ Don't let him get to you.  Don't let him win. _

I stand up to stalk towards him, towering over him, walking him into a corner.  His eyes widen as mine bore into his. I use the deeper register of my voice to say, "I'm taking you to lunch, kitten." It's strange, because that was the tone I once used with unruly subordinates. Never thought I'd add a term of endearment to the end of an order. At least not unironically. I used "Princess" occasionally to emasculate them.

He looks up at me with those giant black eyes, cool and even. "Ooh, are you going to manhandle me?"

I lean in, like I'm about to kiss him. His lips part in anticipation. He leans in too. I retreat just enough to avoid actually touching him. "Jim, go tell your supervisor or whoever that your boyfriend's taking you to lunch."

Livid that I don't kiss him, he growls and shoves me backwards into his chair. "Fucker!" he shouts as he slams the door behind him. I wait a few minutes. Jim returns, glares at me, then grabs his coat. "Let's go!" I catch the door before he slams it on my face.

~~

Jim stares at his reflection, paler than usual, as the tailor measures the length of his arm. There's a strange sort of recognition in his eyes.  Maybe discomfort at the reminder of who he used to be. 

Even before the suit is perfectly fitted, even when the sleeves dangle over his knuckles and the shoulders are far too puffy, he looks like the Professor of the Underground. His skin soft and smooth and supple, the bags under his eyes minimized, the slicked back hair--add the suit and it's almost like Jim never shot himself.

I watch from a chair in the corner, pleased with myself. I'd purchased this suit last week and set up the appointment with the tailor. Jim answers the tailor's questions in a clipped tone, but he doesn't seem to mind. This is a familiar scene, Jim getting fitted for a suit while I sit in the corner, serving as a bodyguard, only now he’s not snapping orders at me or having me text one of his other minions. He’s just staring at his reflection, stiff and still as a rock.

Jim continues to study the mirror long after the tailor has finished taking his measurements. My reflection appears next to his. The reflection of his eyes meet the reflection of mine. He clears his throat and shoves his hands in his pockets, looking even more like the criminal mastermind he once was.

“I know Kiton’s not your usual, but I liked the green. It was dark enough that it wasn’t too flamboyant, but it’s still kind of fun, eh?”

He leans back against me. Per the plan, I shouldn’t let him; I should push him away, but I suppose this is fine. I press my cheek against the side of his head, catching the subtle scent of his hairgel and shampoo. “Do you like it?” I ask him.

“I’ll like it better when it’s not fitted with pins.”

I chuckle. “You just can’t say ‘thank you’, can you, kitten?”

“Why would I? I’m paying for this.”

_ I swear to God, James, I will bash your fucking head into the mirror.  _ “Come now.  I put a lot of thought into this, kitten. And you certainly seem fixated on yourself. Doesn’t it feel nice to be back in a luxury suit? Looking professional and handsome and devilish?”

To my surprise, he doesn’t blush. He smiles that Moriarty smile, and it’s almost like he’s whole again. “It does, tiger.” He turns to face me without the buffer of the mirror. That mischievous gleam is back in his eye. Evelyn’s given me that cheeky look a number of times. How can they look so much alike when they share no genes? To my surprise, he stands on his tiptoes and kisses my cheek.

I’m ashamed to say my knees go weak, and my heart flutters all the way down to my stomach. I never thought I’d respond to a man like this. I want to close in on him, press him against the mirrors and take him for all he’s worth in that moment. I want to take him but also give him everything. It’s sheer willpower that I don’t grab his thighs and wrap them around my waist and slam him against the wall there in the shop.

While he changes back into his "civilian" clothes, I make sure the tailor knows we need the suit by 6:00 p.m. tonight. He agrees, reminding me of the rushjob fees.

For lunch, I take Jim to a teahouse called Chashitsu in the middle of the city. Supposedly, it’s an authentic Japanese tea house, but considering there are no ceremonies taking place, and there’s a lunch special on the menu, I doubt it. Nonetheless, it’s an interesting little place, surprisingly quiet and cozy, bright and minimalistic in its design. We’re surrounded by bonsai trees and orchids, and we’re seated next to a miniature waterfall that’s built into the wall. The wall adjacent us is actually a giant plate glass container with its own environment of flowers and small cherry trees. Inside butterflies are flitting about, hiding beneath branches and leaves when some device above determines it’s time for a light mist.

“This is very beautiful, Sebastian,” Jim says absently as he studies the white walls and the colorful flowers surrounding us.

I’m taken aback by the compliment. “I’m glad you like it.”

After we place our orders and Jim has come back to his snarky arsehole self, he says, “So, today’s what? Pampering? Things? Nuptial gifts?”

“Beauty.”

“How poetic of you.”

“You appreciate beautiful things. In a deeper way than most people. You notice the details that make something beautiful.”

“You’re getting sappy.”

“No, I’m letting you know that I notice that you notice. Details are important to you, and I want you to be aware that I’m actively trying to understand and surround you with things you can appreciate. I’m pursuing you, kitten.  I'm hunting you.”

“Seems counterproductive, telling me that you’re hunting me. What if I run away?” he asks with a teasing grin.

I shake my head. “You like attention. And I think you like the idea of being hunted. Of someone really knowing you and seeing you. Fighting for you.  It scares you a bit, too, which is why you're being resistant, throwing shampoo in my face and the like. I think that’s why you pissed off the Holmes’ boys; because you knew that they would get you but you could keep them at a distance. No emotional investment.”

His face falls a little, and he looks away. “Unfortunately, I did get emotionally invested.” Again, it’s possible that I’m reading into something that isn’t there, but Jim sounds ashamed.

My heart aches. My poor obsessive Jim who can’t let go of Sherlock Holmes. Why couldn’t the bastard stay dead? The words pour out of me before I can stop them. “I’m not as smart as them or as smart as you, James. And I think that will always be a barrier between us. But I’m still here, solely because you asked me to be. I’m hunting you solely because I think you need it. You desperately want to feel less isolated. I’ll walk across the face of the sun to give you that. It’s not Stockholm Syndrome. It’s not just because we have a daughter. It’s because I actually, truly care about you.  I love you, Jim.”

It’s sickening, isn’t it, what love does to you? How it makes you rip open your chest so the other person can access your heart? How it shreds the skin and bone from your being and just leaves your veins and arteries vulnerable? How fluffy nonsensical phrases suddenly mean so goddamn much because your brain’s been skewered by some sort of amorous parasite?

Jim is silent. He avoids looking at me, which is probably for the best, because I’m pretty embarrassed myself.

After our food and tea arrives, Jim lightens the mood with the following question:

“So, getting abducted by Mycroft Holmes?” It’s endearingly precious, because that’s an experience we share, and I think he’s trying to be relatable.

I laugh. “Yeah, it was great.”

He laughs too. “Nice break from the monotony of fatherhood, isn't it?”  

“Yeah, I was out of it for two weeks or something. And when I came off of whatever he used to drug me--that was pure hell. Oh my God, I’ve never been so hung over.”

“It’s poison. It’s not just being hungover. It’s a poisonous concoction that weakens you and works as a truth serum. Not very well, obviously. You didn’t rat us out.”

“Mycroft’s assistant’s cute, though.”

Jim scowls, tossing an edamame bean at me. “Slag.”

“She electrocuted me. Broke my nose, too.”

“I don’t like electrocution,” Jim says thoughtfully. “Most torture I can withstand. But electricity just . . . gets into your veins, doesn't it? It’s all consuming and penetrative, and I just don’t care for it.”

“Figured that’d be your thing.”

“You’d think. But it’s just unpleasant. Hard to ignore.”

“Wait, wait. Ignore? I thought you got off on pain?”

He tilts his head like a lizard, the way he used to when he was the Professor. He scoots closer, speaking in a soft voice.  “Usually. It’s a precarious balance, I suppose. I typically can’t climax without it. And I like the endorphin rush. Pain makes you fully aware of your body. Sometimes it’s just nice to exist in that space.”

“I don’t follow.”

“To just be aware that you’re alive. Distraction.  Pain requires immediate attention, your full focus. Mind over matter, of course, but that’s not the human default. When I’m bored or I’m just tired of my own existence, it’s nice to be reminded of the space I occupy, to be hyper aware of what’s happening to me. It’s centering, I suppose. There’s no past or future, just the moment of agony.” He must see the disgust on my face because he chuckles to himself and continues eating. “But that’s enough about that.”

“So, were you, like, aroused when he was torturing you?”

Jim smirks, those doe eyes boring into mine. “Who, the Ice Man? Why? Are you jealous, tiger?”

“No.”  _ Yes. _

“Of course you’re not. You don’t want me like that. You want me soft and pliant and squirmy, don’t you?”

A pulse of arousal shoots through me. “I do.”

“You want to undo what the others have done to me, don’t you?”

He’s teasing me. “I do.”

“You should just take what you want, Basher. I’d let you.”

Why does he say things like that? “I am, kitten. I wanna be good to you. So I am.”

He scoffs, annoyed at my answer. “It’s amazing that you’ve survived this long in the real world. Especially being an assassin.”

“Jim,” I start to lash out.  _ Don’t startle your prey.  _ I reign in the rage. “Jim, you have beautiful eyes.”

He raises an eyebrow, surprised. “Why thank you.”

~~

Evelyn insists on wearing her own three piece suit. Initially, I hate the idea, because I want my little lady to dress like a little lady, but she reminds me that Irene’s girlfriend Izzy wore a suit even though she was a girl, and who can argue with that logic?

So, Jim, our daughter, and I are all dressed up in our three-piece-suits when we make our way through the central business district to a rooftop bar along the Brisbane River. I tell the maître d'hôtel that we have a reservation, and he escorts us to a corner booth overlooking the river and the Brisbane skyline.

The sun has set, leaving the mauve sky streaked with pink and orange. It’s a warm-looking scene even though it’s a really only about thirteen degrees outside. Evidence of yesterday’s incessant raining is gone. The sky is cloudless and clear against the silhouettes of skyscrapers and towers. Lights flicker on and off throughout the city, blue, white, lavander, so that it looks like the buildings themselves are shimmering. The plate glass shields us from the sound of the outside, and so the lights are accompanied only by the low hum of other patrons' conversation and someone playing a piano.

Jim sits in the corner so that he can see everyone in the room as well as the view from the window. Evelyn sits beside me, across from Jim. She’s talked nonstop since we got in the car. About Jenny, about volcanoes, about the evils of deforestation, about fractions, etc.

“I think we should be vegetarians,” she says, slapping her menu closed.

I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.”

“Evey, you hate vegetables.”

She considers this. “Spaghetti isn’t a vegetable.”

“Are you going to eat spaghetti everyday?”

Evelyn huffs, rolling her eyes. “Daddy, Papa is being obtuse, and I just can’t handle it right now.”

Oh really now? When did we start using “obtuse?”

Jim tears his gaze away from the view, grinning at his daughter. Jim has a very special, sincere grin that’s just for her, and my heart just fucking melts every goddamn time I see it. “He is rather difficult, isn’t he?”

She nods, sighing again. She reopens her menu, looking positively exasperated with me. “He just wants to keep hunting is all. No regard for any of the kangaroos.”

“Oh my God, you are so sassy this evening!” I tap the back of her head.

She points at me, completely serious. “Don’t hit.”

I look to Jim for help.  “I’m getting scolded by a seven-year-old.”

Jim winks at her. “Yeah, but she is wearing a suit.”

“So am I.”

Evelyn gives me a sideways look, clearly unimpressed. “But mine looks better.”

Jim cracks up, hiding his face in his hands. I kick him beneath the table.

Evelyn pats my arm when she sees the shock on my face. “But it’s okay. You’ll grow into yours.”

“Excuse me? I’ll grow into my suit? I’m almost forty, baby girl! There’ll be no more growing!”

“Then just get a new one.”

“I think you’re being obtuse, little miss.”

She giggles, hiding her face in the menu. “No, I’m playing with you. There’s a difference!”

“So you do like my suit?”

She shrugs. “It’s okay. Daddy thinks you look handsome.”

Jim turns beet red. “Evey, that is not what I said.”

“You didn’t have to. I see it in your face!” She’s playing with both of us now. God, she’s an impish little girl. She folds her hands together like a proper little businesswoman and leans over the table. “I’m very observant, you see.”

I wrap my arm around her _so tiny little_ shoulder, blanking the expression on my face. “Okay, what do you see in my face, Miss Observant?” Unfortunately, I can’t keep a straight face when she’s staring at me so intently, tapping her bottom lip the way that Jim does when he’s processing.

“You wanna go see  _ Inside Out _ .”

“That is false.”

“Whatever you say,” she says condescendingly. “I’m just a kid. You’re the adult. Excuse me, I need to go powder my nose.”

I gape. “I beg your pardon?”

"I have to go powder my nose!" she repeats.

"Jim Moriarty, is she wearing make-up?"

"No, Papa!"  She leans up to whisper in my ear. “I need to pee, but we’ve got to be fancy about it.”

“Oh. Okay.”  Relieved, I slide out of the booth and let her out.

Jim gets to his feet.  “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No.”

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Daddy!  Jeez, I'm seven-years-old."

Perturbed, Jim hands her his phone. “Call Papa if you need to.”

She gives him an indignant look. “Why would I need to?”

“If you get lost.”

She rolls her eyes and takes the mobile, stomping off in the wrong direction, proud of the sound her shoes make against the hardwood floor. “Other way, my dear.”

Jim watches her leave, shoulders tense. “I shouldn’t hover, but I hate letting her do anything alone.”  He scrubs his face as the waiter brings our drinks. He takes a sip of his martini before it can reach the table.  

“Understandable. But she’ll be fine.”

“If she’s not back in two minutes, we go after her.”

“Both of us?”

“Yes.”

“So do you really think I look handsome?”

“Shut up, Basher.”

“I think you look gorgeous.”

His ears burn. He shoots me a look that I can’t read, then turns to gaze out the window.

I prop my feet up on the opposite seat, next to Jim.  “I want to touch you. Very badly. I want to pull you into my lap right now and kiss you.”

Still fixated on the view, he answers coldly, “Then do it.”

I shake my head.

“Why not?”

“It’s not time.”

“If you’re the hunter, don’t you determine the time? Ultimately, can’t you do whatever you choose?”

“Self-control, sweetheart. Self-discipline.”

“What’s the point? Are you waiting until I beg?” He lowers his voice. “I don’t beg, tiger.”

“You don’t have to beg, kitten. Just ask.”

He laughs harshly. “How chivalrous.”

After two martinis, he’s less snarky. Quieter too, gentler. The three of us walk across the Victoria Bridge, enjoying the crisp air and beauty of the city. It’s a chilly night, the humidity in the air weighing us down. I give Evelyn my coat and hoist her up on my shoulders. We stop in the middle of the bridge to enjoy the lights of the city. It reminds me of the fireflies in our backyard in Texas.  It’s a beautiful sight. I say as much.

I feel Evey nod her agreement above me. “Yep. I like it better than Texas.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. But not as much as Nephin. Because it snows in Nephin. Nephin is my favorite place in the whole world.”

“Really? I think mine’s India. It’s a great place. Warm. Lots of animals. What about you, Jim?” I turn to look at him and my heart swells when I realize he’s taking a photo on his mobile of me and Evelyn. Of all the chaos and beauty around us, he chooses to capture us in this moment. It’s so sickeningly sweet and I’m completely at his mercy. If he would just ask . . .

Instead, he rests his head against my shoulder. I press a kiss to his forehead. He doesn’t answer my question.

_ Just ask, Jim. Ask me to take you to bed and the hunt will be over. _

He doesn’t.


	33. Day Four: Taste | Nest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all appreciate the effort that went into this because the fucking Google Doc that I edit on would NOT FUKCING LOAD. Like for real, I started working at 11:08 and now it's 11:41 and I swear to GOD. . .

_ Thursday | Basher’s POV _

It's not with entirely pure motives that I make breakfast in bed for my drama queens. Every Thursday, it's only through sheer force of will that I'm able to fight Evelyn out of bed. On Fridays, Jim has to do it because I just can't.  Like I said, there’s nothing as humbling as losing an argument with a seven-year-old.

So, this Thursday, as part of the hunt, I carry Evelyn to Jim's bed and turn off Jim's alarm. Neither stir. The two sleep while I prepare breakfast. I went back and forth about what to prepare. I'm not a great chef, but I've gotten better since Jim's depressive spiral. Cooking was a sort of "sink or swim" thing. Initially, I thought I might try my hand at a traditional full English breakfast, but that's a lot of meat and fat and I want Jim to feel sexy, not bloated. At the same time, I want to prepare something that is comforting and familiar to him. I try to remember what Jim made for breakfast the mornings that I stayed with him before I knew I loved him.

Eggs. That's all I remember.

No, I'm not making eggs. Evelyn threw eggs at me when she was a toddler because she didn't like the way I made them. I suppose cereal is an option, but that's not sexy either.

So then during the planning process of the hunt, I had to wonder what's a sexy food?

Not bananas, I reasoned. Not after our oral sex fiasco the other week.

So, now, I'm in the kitchen slicing apples and cubing honeydew while bacon sizzles on the stove. Jim will probably bitch that it's not turkey bacon, but he can make his own damn breakfast in bed, the ungrateful arse. I drizzle honey on toast (whole wheat, because Jim's crazy and won't let me buy sourdough anymore). When the tea's ready, I pour Evelyn a glass of milk (she's going to spill it, I know she is, and I'll have to be okay with that), I place everything in the egg cruet set which matches this Victorian serving tray I bought specifically for this occasion. Once everything's arranged neatly (I think?) on the tray, I lug the thing to Jim's room, setting it on his nightstand so I can open the curtains.

Both Jim and Evelyn groan at the bright winter sun invading the room and almost perfectly in-sync, they both jerk the covers over their heads and roll over. I slide into the space between them, earning further groans from both of them. "Wake up, sleeping beauties."

Evelyn throws the cover off of her head, glaring at me. "Papa, Daddy and me both had too much to drink last night. Could you tone it down?" She retreats back into the cocoon of blankets.

Jim, having heard this, sits up, looking perturbed. "Evey, I can't begin to explain why those sentences make me unhappy."

"Oh my God, you're ruining my life," comes her muffled reply. "I need an aspirin, stat."

"Where the hell is she getting this?" Jim gapes at me. "This is your doing! You drink too much."

"That is clearly something she's picked up from telly. That's not my doing. I don't take aspirin. You shouldn't've let her drink grape juice out of a wine glass while we were out last night."

"But it was so cute," he whines. "Our little business lady having a drink with dinner." He rolls over me to kiss the pile of blankets that contain our daughter.

"Well, now she thinks she's hung over.  You’re right on my liver, Jim."

"Daddy! Papa! For Chrissake, I'm trying to sleep."

"All right, that's enough, Evey. We don't use that language," I tell her a little more sternly. "I've made you both breakfast in bed."

Evey sits up too, eyes wild. "With eggies?"

"No. I did not make eggies."

"Oh thank God."

I slide out from under Jim so that now I'm on the edge of the bed, closest to the serving tray. "All right, everyone sit up." I hand Jim his cup of tea, making sure the handle is on the left side, and Evelyn her glass of milk. "Evelyn, promise me you won't spill this."

Evelyn, still squinty-eyed and pretending to be hung over, takes the glass. "Oh good, hair of the dog."

Exasperated, Jim squeals, "No! No no no! No ma'am. Where is this coming from? This is not how you need to play make believe."

She gives him a naughty side-wise grin while I place one of the small silver plates from the serving set on her lap, then Jim's.

"Evelyn," Jim warns, "I'm not kidding. This is not how we play."

Her shoulders sink, and she pouts until I put bacon on her plate. Jim settles back against the headboard, popping a blueberry into his mouth. "So, breakfast in bed? I'm mildly impressed."

"Don't I feel special?"

"We'll both be late, you know that?"

"I'm not worried."

"Me either," Evelyn says through a mouthful. "I think we should take a nap afterwards."

I notice that Jim's scooted closer to me sometime in the last few minutes. I shouldn't celebrate a victory before it happens, but, well, you don't always get a lot of victories with Jim. I steal a piece of fruit from his plate.

"Don't you have your own plate?"

"Set only came with two plates. Seemed tacky to add one of the other plates we have."

Jim nods his agreement. "Fiesta ware  _ would _ clash terribly with Victorian silver plating." I'm surprised when he repositions himself so that his back is pressed against my chest, so that we're sort of cuddling. I should push him away. Touch is for tomorrow, I want to tell him. But this is nice. He's touching me, I reason, I'm not touching him. "You should've put flowers in the center."

"Sorry, I'm not a food designer or whatever that would be."

"It's funny that the food is all in egg cups, but there's no eggs."

"I can't tell if you're criticizing me or not."

He smirks up at me before taking a sip of his tea.

Throughout breakfast, I'm acutely aware of Jim's body resting against mine, how he's tensed to avoid moving too much, like any situating or settling would alert me to the fact that we're touching. I debate mentioning to him that he can relax. Letting him know that I know might push him away. My arm aches to wrap around his waist, to pet the slit of exposed skin where his pyjama shirt has been hiked up. I ignore it.

We lounge around for a bit after breakfast is gone, postponing the inevitable meltdown when we make Evelyn get ready for school. In an effort to stay in bed as long as possible, Evelyn eats everything on her plate with no complaints and then settles on Jim's lap. "We should turn on the TV."

Internally, I groan, knowing that we've come to the part of the morning where we fight about getting ready for school. (Note to self: call Evelyn's therapist about these pre-school fights.) I take a deep breath. "Wish me luck, kitten," I whisper before nibbling at the shell of his ear. I feel the shiver run down his spine before I slide out of the bed. "No, Evey, it's time to get ready for school."

She looks at me as though I've just sold her to the circus, completely betrayed. "Papa  _ no _ !"

I brace myself for the tantrum. "Evey, you're going to school today. Just like you did yesterday and just like the day before that and just like you will tomorrow."

She erupts.

An hour later, I'm laying on the couch wondering why on Earth I love either one of these crazy people that I live with. They both require so much maintenance and labor, and I'm just not fit for it. But I love them, and fit or not, I'm here.

Evelyn stomps from her room to the door. "I'm leaving and I'm not giving you a goodbye kiss, Papa!" She slams the door.

"That's fine," I answer back.  "I've only taken care of you since you were a tot."

Jim dashes out of his room, shirt still untucked, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Christ, EVELYN! Stop." He throws the door open, warning her not to move. He breezes through the den, grabbing his tablet and a banana from the kitchen. I catch him by the bag before he can head for the door again. He looks thoroughly shocked.

"Thanks for walking her to school." I stand up so that I can kiss him. A short kiss, but a proper one nonetheless, one where I can taste his surprise and his tea and his toothpaste, one where he hums in pleasure, his body going slack against mine. I nip at his bottom lip before I let him go.

Evelyn screeches her displeasure from the breezeway, stomping away from the threshold. "GUH-ROSS! I'm putting both of you up for adoption!"

Jim licks his lips, still stunned. "Evelyn, if you take one more step, you're not watching any television tonight," he manages, half-hearted. He tilts his head for one more kiss, but I retreat before he can make contact.

"Go on, kitten. Go make sure our daughter doesn't stomp into oncoming traffic."

~~

I'm surprised that I don't hear from Jim until after 17:00. I can hear his hesitation on the phone, like he's pretty sure he knows I'm responsible, but that over-analytical brain of his is telling him it's entirely possible it's coincidence.

"Jim?" I prompt him. I can hear the static of tinfoil being crumpled up in the background.

Finally, he asks, "Have you been in my office?"

I cover the speaker so he can't hear me laugh. "Of course. You saw me there yesterday. Remember I brought you flowers?"

I can practically hear his scowl. "I mean today."

"What gives you that idea?"

He huffs.

"I'm not sure what you want, kitten." I'm taunting him.

"You're gaslighting me."

"Never."

"ARGH! Sebastian Moran!"

I don't bother to conceal my laughter. "What is it, kitten?"

"How many are there?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

He expends an exaggeratedly defeated sigh. "Did you hide Hershey's kisses all over my office?"

"Why yes I did."

"How many are there?"

"I don't know. Coupla' bagsful." He's silent. "Why? Do you have reason to believe someone else would be hiding chocolates around your office?"

More silence.

"Dark chocolate's supposed to elevate your mood or some nonsense," I explain, pleased that I've rendered my smartarse boyfriend silent. Still nothing. "Are you upset, kitten?"

" _ No. _ "

More silence.

"Well if you've nothing else to say, I'm going to hang up."

"WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THESE?"

"Eat them."

"Stop laughing at me! Is this supposed to be clever? Like, your clever way of telling me that I get no more kisses because I got them all at the office?"

"Ooh, kitten, no. No, poor Jim."

"Stop laughing, Basher. I'm warning you."

"My dear, sweet, paranoid, criminal genius. No, love, you'll get kisses when you get home. It'll be especially nice for me because you'll taste like chocolate."

"I don't appreciate your patronizing tone. Idiot."

_ Call ended. _

~~

I manage to start zero fires while making a special dinner for my makeshift family. Evelyn, however, manages to start three. The first one I'm sure was an accident (she left a wooden spoon on an active eye). The next two . . . I'm pretty sure my daughter is a growing arsonist. Or she just likes using the detachable sink hose to put out the fires because it's the one time she can spray it anywhere she wants.

I really need to have a long chat with her therapist.

Jim's working late this evening because he went in late. I wonder if his activities are purely academic. One way or another, I'm going to weasel my way into that aspect of his life. I can't just stay home all day and cook. Because I fucking hate cooking. I think the most emasculated I've ever felt was asking the kid at the grocery store where I could find pomegranate molasses. Why can't Jim be the sort of bloke that eats normal things, like beef?

Unfortunately, the answer is I wouldn't love him if he was like other blokes. Fucking bastard.

The kitchen floor is soaked when Jim gets home. Evelyn is screeching, "DADDY!" before he's even turned the doorknob. She slips on the floor, but it doesn't phase her. The great thing about seven year olds, I'm learning, is that even though they tear you a new one every goddamn morning, they're usually completely over it by the time school is out. I hear them exchange kisses and greetings in the hallway.

"Daddy, you absolutely can not come in the kitchen."

"Why's that?"

"Because."

His head pops around the corner anyway.

"I haven't murdered anyone if you're checking," I assure him in a quiet voice.

"Good. That's what the loo's for. What happened in here?"  He motions to the standing water in the floor.

"Fires," Evelyn says evenly, as though it was completely normal.

Jim frowns at the wet floor. "What fires?"

"None of your business," Evelyn says, hands on her hips. "Daddy, get out. We're working." She prances back into the kitchen, careful not to slip this time.

Jim leans against the threshold of the kitchen. "Do you know how to prepare a meal, tiger? Or is this just more cheap chocolates?"

I suck off the white chocolate that's gotten on my thumb. "No, that's dessert, prick. Evey, I'm not going to tell you again. Mop up the water before it leaks into the flat downstairs."

"Would they drown? The people downstairs?"

"No, there's not enough water. It would just make them very angry and the building manager even angrier."

I look up to see Jim still lingering in the threshold. "This is supposed to be a surprise. Get out."

Evey, who is mopping up the water by standing on a towel and swinging her body back and forth, parrots back, "Yeah, get out."

"I pay the rent," Jim grumbles before disappearing into the den.

_ Duck breast with pomegranate-citrus glaze, steamed red potatoes, and roasted bell peppers. _

I made that. I'm deeply, deeply ashamed. The bird looks beautiful, the potatoes are tender, and the bell peppers . . . certainly look roasted? In retrospect, I wish I'd at least shot the duck myself. Then there'd be some scrap of dignity to this. Instead, I bought it from some posh butchery where the owner lectured me on the superiority of muscovy duck to pekin while I contemplated suicide.

I can't bring myself to light the candles on the table, so I ask Jim to do it. I have to salvage what little dignity I'll have left after I present my boyfriend and my daughter with strawberries dipped in white chocolate. Evelyn sets the table, and Jim straightens everything behind her.

Jim and Evey wait patiently for me to take my seat. For the first time in a while, Jim doesn't gripe when I ask Evelyn to say grace. Evelyn prays that the police will find her principal, Dr. Munoz, so that I can kick him for letting her leave school with that crazy lady. Jim and I both struggle to keep a straight face, as he's been dead and disposed of for about two weeks now. Evelyn also prays that no one in the world gets burned by lava tonight. She's a thoughtful little arsonist.

Jim takes one of Evelyn's hands and studies it. "Darling? Did you wash your hands?"

"Are you kidding me? I cooked this meal."

I try not to choke on my food. "No, you cooked a spoon and caught the mail on fire."

Apparently the news that his daughter caught our mail on fire doesn't faze Jim. "Sweetheart, go wash your hands."

"What? Why? I already washed my hands on the floor!"

"All the more reason to go wash your hands for real."

Evelyn jerks her hand out of his grip, eyes blazing as though she might actually be able to melt her daddy. "I. Already. Did."

Jim sighs, rubbing his eyes. "Evey, please, I'm too tired to argue with you. Just please? For me? Go wash your hands."

She throws her head back, exhaling a ridiculously long groan. "Fine. But only because you said please." She storms back to the kitchen sink.

Once the water's running and Evelyn's singing something about washing her hands, Jim leans over to me and asks, "Is this part of your little trap?"

I lean in too, sliding my chair closer to him so that I can press a quick kiss to his mouth. "Part of the hunt," I answer playfully. Another kiss.

"Goddamned tease." He grabs the collar of my shirt and pulls me in for a forceful, frustrated kiss. On his tongue I can taste the overpriced wine he had before dinner, and I think, maybe, the remnants of dark chocolates. Evelyn's groan of disgust separates us. "Nice touch with the candles," he says, taking a bite of the duck slice. "Could have let the bird roast a bit longer, though."

"Here's an idea. How about you plan some big romantic event, and I'll complain about everything?" I steal his glass of wine and take a big gulp, daring him to stop me.

"Ooh, this is romantic, isn't it?" he asks with that mockingly flirtatious tone. "Sharing drinks, buying flowers, hiding chocolates. It's almost like we're a real couple."

I lift his chin, forcing him to meet my eyes. I give him the most sincere look I can, pouring my heart into what I hope is an affectionate, desperate look that says, "I love you even though you're batshit insane and mean-spirited and doing your best to keep me out of your life even though you asked me to stay, you stupid fuck." He looks mildly shocked. I watch the shadows flicker across his face as the candle's flame dances in the center of the table. He looks different today. I haven't realized it until now but I think he's gained weight. He almost looks healthy. The bags under his eyes aren't as pronounced. He's slept through the night last night. My beautiful Jim is blossoming back into himself, I think. I know I have to keep it PG, because now Evelyn is back in her chair, but I kiss Jim once more. "We are a real couple, kitten."

His shoulders sag the tiniest bit. He scoots away from me, looking embarrassed. "Jesus, Basher, it's just dinner. Such high intensity."

~~

Having finally gotten Evelyn into the bath, Jim flops down on the sofa across from the armchair where I'm reading. "It's 9:00. She's going to be hell in the morning."

I crawl over to the sofa to sit against it, so that Jim and I are level. "But really that's not different than any other morning."

"I should've gotten her in the tub earlier."

"Yeah, but it was nice, the three of us at the table, talking. I will say, though, it's incredibly difficult to seduce you with a child in the room." I turn my body so that I'm face-to-face with Jim. "Was that a conscious decision? You putting me off?"

Jim chuckles. "Basher, my darling idiot, don't romanticize me. You'll only end up disappointed."

"What's that mean?"

"It means that you think you're going to save me from some lonely existence or teach me that I'm lovable or break down whatever barriers you think I have, but, tiger, you're forgetting who you're dealing with. I don't have intimacy issues, I'm not pushing you away because I'm afraid, or any of that shite you see at the cinema. You're shadowboxing with your perception of me as some broken, wounded creature, but in reality, I'm just laughing at you."

I lick my lips. I won't lie, that definitely plants doubt in my thoughts. What if I  _ am _ just making a fool of myself? What if I'm that guy in _ Death in Venice _ who becomes a parody of himself so that he can chase someone who will never return his love? What if I've truly sacrificed everything for an illusion? Jim had, after all, warned me that was all he could give. I search those black eyes for something to confirm or deny what he's said. Instead, I just find blankness.

So either, there's legitimately nothing there, or he's fashioned a barrier, and because I'm still a practicing Catholic, and because I don't believe that God would ever create a truly soulless, loveless human being, I choose to believe it's a barrier. And maybe it  _ is _ Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe my humanizing him is my attempt to justify the decisions I've made.

"Sorry, tiger. Them's the breaks."

No. He's gotten better over this last week. He's responded well to being pampered, to being taken care of, to being loved. That must mean something. It has to. He needs to be fought for.

I kiss him, soft and slow, savoring the spark of citrus notes on his lips and tongue. "Sit up. I wanna try something." While he does, I head to the kitchen to retrieve the remaining white-chocolate dipped strawberries, a wine glass, and a tumbler. From the loo, Evelyn shouts, "I'm finished!"

"Bloody hell," Jim says softly before yelling back, "No, you are not. You've been in there not five minutes!"

"You said I didn't have to wash my hair!"

"You still have to wash your skin!"

"It has hair on it!"

"Oh my God. Fine, you have to wash everything, then."

"NO!"

"Yes!"

"But you said!"

"I'm abiding by your logic, madam, which means I have to change what I initially told you to do."

Evelyn's muffled groan echoes through the flat. The pipes hiss, signifying that she's gotten back in the tub. Carrying a glass of merlot, a tumbler of whiskey, and the cold tray of strawberries, I return to the den and take a seat beside Jim. Once I've settled everything on the coffee table, I kiss him again, and fuck whatever he said earlier because he melts against me.

I break away, just a centimeter or two so I can say, in a low, deep voice, "Lay your head in my lap." Quick kiss. "And I'll feed you strawberries."

With some hesitance, he obeys, situating himself so that his skull rests comfortably on my thigh. Despite my rule about touching, I run my fingers through his hair. "I feel like Kim Basinger in  _ Nine and a Half Weeks _ ."

I don't say anything. I take a pull from my tumbler, letting the familiar burn embolden me then take the cellophane off the tray.

"Really, I ate plenty of them at dinner. I'll have to do so much maintenance dieting next week." He pulls a face.  "The cinnamon bun, the chocolates, the wine, the duck, and now this. Aw, fuck. I regret this entire week."

"There's my vain maniac." My thumb ghosts over his bottom lip before I offer him a bite of the strawberry. His breath is hot and humid against my finger tips. He's turned red all of the sudden.

"This is stupid," he murmurs.

"I did this for Anisa once or twice."

"You paid her to let you do that."

"She liked it," I continue as though he's not said anything. "I liked watching her lips move over the fruits. Watching her throat move as she swallowed. There's something strangely imitate about feeding someone, I think. Meeting a very basic need, maybe. I'm sure there's an evolutionary reason it's sexy."

His black eyes meet mine and for the briefest moment, I think I see humiliation in them. He averts his eyes and nibbles at the treat I'm holding.

"There's a vulnerability to it, I think. You have to be vulnerable to have some care for you, in the physical ways, I mean." I take a bite of the piece he's just bitten. "I think you make yourself physically vulnerable to people like Magnussen and Adler because it partially satisfies the human need for physical vulnerability without actually putting yourself at emotional risk."

"How very psychological, of you," he says sarcastically. "Maybe you should give up thinking altogether."

I press the remainder of the strawberry to his lips, purposefully brushing the backs of my fingers against his mouth. "I've been doing a lot of thinking the last few weeks. About you."

He takes the rest of the treat, and I think I see gooseflesh erupt on his arms. I reach out for another strawberry, biting into it before offering it to him. "About how much I want to fit into your life. I think what you said about my wanting a family that Christmas was true. I've always wanted a real family of my own. I've always wanted the opportunity to undo what my dad did to me and my mum and my sister. But see, I never realized how much I wanted those things until I realized that I loved you."

I comb through his hair again. His eyes flutter. "Did I ever tell you about how I realized I loved you?"

He shakes his head. The strawberry is gone. He licks at the melted chocolate on my finger tips. "I was laying in bed with Anisa. It was my birthday. We'd just had incredible sex. Like, blood-boiling, wall-punching, screaming sex. I'd won a bunch of money at a casino. We'd both been drinking of course, and I'd started a fire in the fireplace."

"How is this about me?"

"Hush. Narcissist." I bring another strawberry to his lips, admiring the red stains that mark them. Shiny with saliva and strawberry juice. "Anyway, it was the perfect moment. And more than anything, I wanted to be back in Texas with you. Not just Evey, but you. More than I wanted hot women and sex, my heterosexual arse wanted to be with you."

He's quiet for a moment. "I don't know what to say to that, Bash."

I shrug and smile at him. "You don't have to say anything, kitten. I'm just telling you that I love you."

He sits up, his back to me. "You didn't like it, kissing me."

The statement makes my heart ache. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm just wired differently, Jim." I nuzzle against his shoulder. "But I'm learning." I kiss his shoulder. "Like just now, I was admiring your lips." He turns the tiniest bit, and I pounce on him, pinning him to the couch so that I can kiss him. I have to be careful, because we're getting into touch territory, and unless Jim asks me to make love to him, that's for tomorrow. I hold his hands above his head and hover above him, ensuring our chests and hips don't meet.

My self-control is mostly gone, though. I'm kissing him like a randy teenager, sloppy and with entirely too much teeth. So much for being soft with him. Reigning myself in, I slow down, my mouth meeting his in quick, gentle taps that gradually become longer, more fervent kisses. He tastes like melty chocolate and strawberries. His tongue against mine ignites the burn of the alcohol on my lips.

It's getting harder to stay still. I feel my cock filling with blood, aching for friction. Jim's hips press up against mine and he moans like a goddamn whore.

Thank God, Evelyn storms out of the loo, her hair wrapped in a towel, wearing her robe, dripping wet. She passes through the den, her wet feet  _ plat plat _ ing against the floor. Why does no one in this flat dry off before getting out of the shower? Back to my senses, I rip myself away from Jim. He's blushy and bleary-eyed, and pride swells in my chest. He seems dazed at the sudden loss of contact. He sits up again, eyes on me until he can focus.

_ Ask me, Jim. Please just ask me. _

Evelyn stomps out of the kitchen back into the den with a wine glass of grape juice and stations herself between me and Jim. "There, I washed everything. Are you happy now?"

Jim rubs his face. "You, my dear, are an absolutely terror. Come on, let's get ready for bed."

She holds up a finger, stopping him. "Let me finish my juice. We've done everything you want to do, now it's my turn. I wanna drink my juice and watch telly."

~~

Jim stands in my doorway as I strip down to just my boxers. I can feel his eyes on my skin, studying the muscles in my back, my thighs, my arms.

"Can I help you, kitten?"

_ Ask me. _

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. I stalk closer. "What do you need, James?"

The light leaves his eyes.  "Nothing. I'm fine."

A roar of frustration crashes against my chest, trying to get out, but externally, I sigh, kiss him once more and say, "Then go to bed, kitten. I'll see you in the morning."

He stands on his tiptoes to kiss me once more and then disappears back to his room.


	34. Day Five: Touch | Bath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I need to say this: It's difficult to let yourself be loved. It really is. It's scary and it makes you vulnerable. And while Jim isn't affected by physical pain, I think emotional pain is more than he can bare, so he keeps Basher at a distance because it's safer. To let yourself be wholly loved in your entirety is, like, the biggest risk you can take.

_ Friday | Basher’s POV _

Unfortunately, the fifth morning of the hunt starts off with a knife at my throat, the entirety of Jim's body and my own shock pinning me to the bed.

“What the fuck are you doing, Sebastian?” Jim breathes, realization dawning across his face.

“Jesus Christ, you paranoid cunt! What the fuck?!”

Color starts to return to his cheeks. He rolls off of me. It's only in his absence that I realize his heart was pounding against me. “Don't touch me when I'm sleeping, Basher.”

“I've crawled in bed with you nearly every day this week!”

“Don't  _ touch _ me when I'm sleeping!” he repeats.

“Oh my God. You're a lot stronger than I thought.”

Jim scratches his head, rolling off the bed. “What are you doing? What time is it?” He checks the time on his phone and groans. “Quit fucking with my alarm, you horny slag.”

“I thought that might be nicer than your alarm going off. I had no idea you were wound so tight.”

“What were you even doing?”

“I was going to. . .” My face burns at the admission. “It's how I used to wake up Anisa. Stroke her hair until her eyes opened.”

He rolls his eyes, a cruel grin on his face. “How romantic. Why don't you go wake her up then, and I'll use my alarm like an adult?”

_ I oughta grab that goddamn knife and drive it right through your eye. _

“Because I've already fucked Anisa. She's not prey anymore.”

“Oh? Just prey?” he asks as he throws his robe around his shoulders. “I thought you wanted to marry the Virtuous Whore?”

How does Jim know things? I'm fairly certain I've never told him that. Hell, after he “died” he shouldn't have had anyway of knowing that I continued to use her services.

Suddenly he's in my face, our noses almost touching. “I'm not prey, Basher,” he says with that same cruel grin, his eyes scanning my face. “I'm letting you play, but you're not the predator.”  He ends with his cruelly playful sing-song.

The grin fades when I stroke his cheek. Internally, I'm boiling, but I've got to control my temper. Just until I win. Then I can go back to being the shitty boyfriend I am. (And, to be fair, I was only ever a shitty boyfriend with Jim. I'm a great murderer and an even better lover. Well, no, I'm definitely a better murderer. Assassin.)

“I'm sorry, kitten,” I say softly, my thumb ghosting over his bottom lip. “Just wanted to touch you is all.”

A flash of panic crosses his face. He doesn't know what to say or how to feel. He hides it well though. Five years ago, I probably wouldn't've noticed. “Don't do it while I'm sleeping,” he grumbles before leaving the room. “Wipe your neck before you go wake Evey. You'll frighten her.”

I touch the place under my chin where Jim had pressed the knife. Sure enough there's partially dried blood. Damn. I'm proud of the little bastard, if you want the truth. I worry that he can't protect himself or Evey when I'm not around, because I forget that Jim's pretty good with a knife. A pistol, not so much, but a knife . . .

“It's your day to get Herself up,” I shout at the ceiling of his room.

His head pops into view. “You're trying to seduce me.”

“Doesn't mean you get whatever you want.”

“Then you're doing it wrong,” he sings, disappearing again.

“If I have to fight her one more morning, I won't have the stamina, kitten.”

He appears again, drumming his fingers against the open door of his room, glaring at me. “You assume too much, pussycat.”

I sit up, flashing the vee. “You get in here, and I'll show you  _ pussycat _ .”

“I've already seen it, and I'm not impressed!” he hollers from the kitchen.

“WHAT?!”

It's a shame that I have to be the one to kill James Moriarty.

~~

We go through the movements of our typical Friday morning routine. I make coffee for myself, tea for Jim, avocado toast for Evelyn and Jim. I manage to keep the existential crisis that accompanies making avocado toast at bay. 

I listen to Jim and Evelyn fight. Her therapist believes the fights are just habit now--she doesn’t have anxiety about going to school; she’s just in the habit of resisting. I’m sure somewhere deep down Jim is proud. Currently though, he’s just pleading with her to not wear her pink Batman (it’s not Batgirl, thank you very much, Evelyn doesn’t like Batgirl, she likes Batman, Daddy, GAHD!) costume to school.

Jim storms into the kitchen, looking frazzled. His eyes are wide and wild and he looks like he might abandon Evelyn to the Australian wilderness. He pours a cup of tea, stirs in the honey and milk, and grabs his plate of toast from the counter.

“Doing all right?”

“I always said I would never give Evelyn drugs, but . . .” He starts towards his chair, but I grab the edge of his robe and pull him into my lap, wrapping my arm tight around his waist as he wriggles. “You’re still sweaty and gross from your run.” He tries to pull away, but it’s half-hearted, just for show, so I keep my grip tight. “Ugh, and you have morning breath.”

I don’t look up from my tablet. I do, however, rest my cheek against the shoulder of his overly fluffy robe.

I like this. I like the weight of him in my lap. He’s heavier than most of the women I’ve had in my lap. Denser. His shoulders are broader, and I have to work to find a comfortable position to rest my head. Every physical aspect about being in a relationship with Jim is different than being in a relationship with women, and while those differences initially repulsed me, I find now that they’re growing on me. In fact, it’s more than that. I enjoy it. I crave the physical contact. It’s not immediately satisfying and electric the way touching a woman is, but it’s calming and warm, quieting something deep, deep down in my chest.

I’m not paying attention to the news anymore. Even though I’m not looking at him, my focus is entirely on him, on the presence of him in my lap. Saccharine feelings of affection blossom in my chest. I tighten my arm around his waist.

“Looks like Magnussen’s news quality has risen since he died,” Jim says through a mouthful of toast, jutting his jaw toward my tablet.

“Hm? Oh. Yeah, Janine took over. Did you know her?”

“Fake girlfriend of Sherlock Holmes, personal assistant to my former lover?” He raises his eyebrows. “No, never crossed my radar.”

I don’t bother to hide my disgust. “Lover?”

“Would you prefer I say the man who choked me for sexual gratification when I was technically too young to consent?” He grins at my discomfort. “Oh, it was never against my will, Tiger,” he purrs. “In fact, I sought him out again and again--”

“James,” I growl. The warm pleasant feelings I had not two seconds ago have been replaced with disgust and abhorrence. “Knock it off.” I remove my head from his shoulder.

His breath is humid against my face and ear as he whispers, “I thought we were playing, Tiger?”

Steeling my guts and my resolve, I undo the knot of his robe and slide my hand inside to touch the shower-warmed skin of his stomach. “Why can’t this be good for you too?” I ghost my fingertips over the expanse of his chest, encouraging those affectionate feelings to return. “Just gentleness? Something a bit subtler?” I circle the edges of one of his nipples, feeling it harden.

Jim takes a sip of tea, smirking. “You’d rather fondle your lovers like an adolescent in the dark room of the cinema. Quaint. Unfortunately, Tiger, I require a bit more  _ stimulation _ .”

“Hush. This could be just as stimulating, kitten.” I pull him tighter against me so that now my mouth is right at his ear. “Lightly tracing over the edges of your areola until your nipple is hard and aching. Beneath your robe, so no one can see. Just a manifestation of how badly I want to make you feel good and squirmy. Think about how it feels, just a small point of contact, and how that little bit of touch can light up your nerves.” I pinch the hardened nipple. Jim jolts almost imperceptibly. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Being made aware of your body, minus pain, of where I’m touching you, not to hurt you, just be close to you. It’s sweet, I suppose. Like the honey you put in your tea. Just a little touch and the tea’s sweet. It complements the bitterness of the tea, doesn’t it?” I can feel the short hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention. I pinch him lightly again. “You’re aware of your body now, aren’t you?” I very gently scrape my teeth against his neck.

He visibly shudders and shrugs me off. “No more than usual,” he snaps.

I don’t let him get up. I keep him against me, on top of me. “Shh, shh, I’m sorry, pretty kitten. Maybe I’m not doing it right.” I move to the other nipple, teasing it to hardness. “Would it help if I used my mouth? My tongue?”

He squirms against me. I reach down to squeeze his thigh, and his hips involuntarily seek out my hand. “I want you, kitten. I want to be good to you. Make you yearn for more.” I give him another squeeze. I continue to trace the dark skin around his nipple, the touch just hard enough to be more than a tickle. “What if I touched your cock like this?”

“I’d fall asleep,” he says, not sounding as unaffected as he hopes.

“I don’t think so.” I make an exploratory grab for his cock, which isn’t quite flaccid.

He squawks, grabbing my wrist. “Cheat!” he hisses, rising from my lap. The look on his face reminds me of a particularly prudish nun I’d met in Turkey when I was six.

“Liar,” I counter.

He takes his usual seat across from me, his cheeks pink and adorable. He offers me one final glare before grabbing his tea and toast and tucking in.

I’m grinning, of course, because he’s on the retreat. I’m winning. “You should let me love you, Jim.”

“What an idiotic thing to say.”

~~

I imagine Jim rolling his eyes at the photo I’ve just sent him of the bottle of pink champagne chilling in a bucket of ice and water sitting on the edge of the bath tub. The accompanying text read:  _ Join me _ .

I wait a few minutes, doubtful that he’ll respond.

He does though.

_ I’m helping OUR DAUGHTER with her homework. .jm _

_ Why? She’s got all weekend. _

_ Join me. _

The layout of the bathroom is interesting. The shower is separate from the bathtub, and the actual toilet has its own little room, complete with sink and locking door. On each side of the room are two sinks, and whoever lived here before us had plaques installed over each saying, “His” and “Hers” respectively.

I don’t get to use either of these sinks and only rarely do I use Jim’s bathroom. For a while it was because of the disdain I had for him--I wanted to keep as much of my life separate as I could because I was angry at him for taking away all the things I loved. Now, though, I’m planning to take over that “HIS” goddamn sink, so help me God. I’ll have my cheap shave cream there before Sunday. I am going to invade every aspect of James Moriarty’s life. I just have to win tonight.

I fill the tub with water and pour in bubble bath that supposedly smells like sandalwood but to me just smells like soapy bubbles. There’s something extremely satisfying about plucking the petals off of a few roses and scattering them about the foam. The sight itself doesn’t do it for me, but I dated a lass once who really got off on rose baths. I’m hopeful it will have a similar effect on Jim.

I send him a photo of the white foam, decorated with rose petals.

_ Join me. _

While I wait, I strip down to nothing. I contemplated waxing my chest for tonight but after watching the youtube videos and seeing the suggested videos titled with some variation of “HOW TO TREAT BUMPS AFTER WAXING” I decided against it. I did do a bit of maintenance downstairs though. No hair removal, just some trimming. I’m a good boyfriend.

He hasn’t responded when I check my mobile again, and doubt starts to creep in. I shove it away. I’m gonna get Jim in this tub even if I have to use the Xanax.

The last photo I send is of my reflection, totally nude, a heart-shaped box of chocolates placed suggestively over my groin.  _ Join me. _

I wait.

And wait.

Have I misjudged? Have I lost my touch? Maybe it's harder to seduce a gay man than a straight or bi woman?

No. I've followed the rules of the hunt, and they’ve never failed me long-term. Jim will come.

I slip into the tub, amazed at the sheer volume of foam on top of the water. I check the directions on the bottle, wondering if I added too much.

The door swings open, bringing my attention to Jim Moriarty in the doorway, two champagne flutes hanging between his fingers. I smirk. Two means he intends to stay a while. “You don’t drink champagne out of wine glasses, dummy.” He nods towards the wine glasses sitting beside the bucket of ice.

“Well, well, well,” I say. “Look who decided to show up.” I pat the foam, inviting him in.

“I haven’t decided to stay.”

“Then why two glasses?”

He purses his lips. “I’m not going to pass up  _ brut rose _ .”

“Take a bath with me.”

His eyes trail over the unsubmerged parts of my body, and I see him swallow. I give him puppy dog eyes. “Please, kitten?”

“There’s not room,” he says even as he removes his shirt.

I lean back, leering at him, watching as he slips into exposure. It’s interesting to me that his biceps still have so much definition, where the rest of him has gotten soft. I suppose it’s from the days that he used to swim, but I can’t imagine the muscle has hung around that long. Maybe he works out when I’m not looking.

The first time we had sex, that trail of hair beginning beneath his navel had been such a turn-off. Now, though, I like it, I think. It’s comforting, as stupid as that sounds. His trousers and pants come off and he strikes some ridiculous Freddie Mercury pose when I wolf-whistle at his naked body. Not a hint of shame presents itself in the man who is Moriarty.

He starts to sit in the tub so that we’re facing each other, but I maneuver him so that he’s between my legs, his back pressed against my chest.

I’m ashamed to say that having his bare skin against mine is a subtle shade of heaven, and I squeeze him close to me, because I want nothing more than to be rid of the space between us. I nuzzle into his neck, breathing in the overpriced scent of who he was and who he is now. My arms, wrapped around his waist, can feel the impressions of ribs below the skin, but the impressions are much less severe than they would’ve been six months ago.

He’s doing so much better. God, it’s so good to have him like this. Mildly healthy, vanity returning, sassy as always. He shrugs me off when I go to kiss his neck. “I came in here for champagne, not snuggle time.”

I find I can’t help myself. I growl and hold him in place, sucking at his shoulder. Holy fuck, I want him. I had no idea how much I wanted him until right the fuck now. His smooth back pressed against me, his legs slippery against mine, his neck so painfully accessible to me.

Jesus Christ, I want his mouth.

A soft sound he makes brings me back to myself, and I loosen my grip. I lean back against the the slope of the tub, taking a long, deep breath. He follows me, his head coming to rest against my shoulder. He holds out his hand expectantly. “I was promised champagne and chocolates.”

“Ha, kitten, I promised you nothing.”

“Oh, you were just showing off, then?” His Dubliner accent fades into my received pronunciation one. “I’m Colonel Moran and I buy limited edition pink champagne.”

“Oh is it limited edition?” I genuinely hadn’t looked. It was just the most expensive thing when I searched for “pink champagne” and “delivery.” I pick up the bottle to examine the label.

“Well, limited quantity.”

The cork pops off with minimal effort, and only a bit fizzes into the water, the alcohol dissipating the bubblebath.

“So, tell me, Tiger,” Jim says after he settles back against me with his flute full of pink bubbles, “why are you doing this?”

“Be more specific.”

“Why the seduction?”

“I want you to feel loved. I want to take care of you.” It’s a factual answer--there’s no romance or drama in my voice, but it’s like answering, “Four” to “Two plus two is?”

“To what end, though?”

I shrug. “So that you feel cared for?”

He shifts against me. I can’t see his face but I can tell he’s frowning. “But what do you get out of it? Because if it’s just sex, you can take that, easy peasy. I’ve not been denying you.”

“You haven’t been asking.”

“So it’s important that I ask? You do want me to beg?” There’s a harrowing recognition in his voice that sends a chill down my spine.

I put a stop to that train of thought. “No. Nothing like that. At all. I want . . .” I freeze, unsure how to articulate what I want. “I don’t want anything from you, really. I want you to ask me, but only because I’m offering you my affection and my tenderness, and it’s always . . . nerve-wracking to offer those things up to someone.”

With a great deal of contempt, he asks, “So you want my approval?”

“No, it’s more than that.” I down the remainder of the fruity fizz in my flute. God, it’s terrible. “And really it’s nothing more than I want you to feel good. I don’t want to hurt you; I don’t want you to be aware of your body because you’re in pain; I want you to be aware of your body because everything feels so good. I want you conscience, enjoying the sensations, really experiencing what it’s like when someone really cares about what arouses you, what feels good for you.”

“Pain and pleasure processing involve many of the same parts of the brain. In fact, pain releases dopamine into your system as well. It’s all relative. If I interpret the sensation as pleasurable, who are you to tell me it’s not?”

FUCK. I don’t know things like that. Why the hell did I get a degree in political science?

_ Don’t panic. Prey can smell adrenaline. _

To buy myself some time, I open the box of chocolates, offering one to Jim. He blows the bubbles away from my fingers and licks the piece from my grasp. I palm over his abdomen, over his ribs, across his chest, feeling him breathe in and out, feeling how his body moves even when he doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything.

My hand comes to rest over his heart, beating in a calm, even rhythm.

“Can I try something, kitten?”

“What?”

“Promise you’ll work with me?”

“I’m not going to ride you in the bathtub,” he says, popping another chocolate in his mouth. “We’ll get water everywhere.”

I flick the back of his ear. “No. Close your eyes. Lay back.”

He does. Even so, he has to be a smartarse. “Is this some sort of trust exercise you found online?”

“No, now hush. Hands down.”

His head rests on my chest, eyes closed. Not clenched, just relaxed like maybe he’s asleep. “I’m going to touch you. Please don’t stab me.” I keep one hand against his heart.

He snorts in response, readjusting his head. The fingertips of my free hand trace the lines of the bones in his chest, just the faintest touches. My champagne flute is pressed against his lips and he obediently parts them to let the alcohol slide into his mouth. I set it back down and resume lazily stroking his shoulders and chest. “Right now, you’re calm. Your instincts aren’t ordering you to fight, to get away. You took a sip from a flute, no idea if it was yours or mine or if I put something in it. It means a lot to me that you trust me.

“It was my flute glass, kitten, just so you know. The romantic in me wants to think you could taste me on the rim of the glass.” I lick a broad stripe along his neck, gathering the faint taste of sweat and soap. Then another lick, and this time he shivers. “Focus on that one act. My tongue, soft and wet, dragging its way across the expanse of the sensitive skin of your neck. A basic instinct would be to shield the arteries, the veins there. Your neck is so precious to your survival, and yet,” I scrape my teeth against his nape, “all those nerves light up when I touch them oh-so-gently.” He shudders. “And your heart beats a little harder, but it’s not telling you to escape, to avoid. Your blood pressure doesn’t drop. Because this is nice, isn’t it, Jim?”

My fingers splay against his shoulder and I start to clumsily massage the tissue there. He sinks further down into the water so that I have to hold him tighter against me to keep him where I want him. I continue to speak in a low voice, still monitoring the beat of his heart. “See how you relaxed the tiniest bit when I started working the muscle there? You didn’t tense, didn’t guard. Because this inherently feels better than a whip against your shoulder, doesn’t it, kitten?” I mouth at the other side of his neck. He tilts his head to give me better access, and I can’t stop the groan reverberating in my throat.

I circle one of his nipples like I did this morning. His breath catches. “I love your nipples, Jim. I love how sensitive they are. I love how sensitive you are. This is why you need to be handled properly, because someone like you, so smart, so observant--you can really appreciate it.” I nibble at his earlobe. He squirms minutely between my legs. “The skin there is so soft.” I very lightly scrape my thumbnail just beneath the nipple and he jolts. “See how good that feels, beautiful? And there’s no clamps or pinching or anything, just soft touches.”

His heart beats faster, but it’s not that hammering that comes with terror or slowing that comes with shock. His skin feels hot beneath my palm. I turn my attention to his other nipple, circling the sensitive flesh there, lightly rubbing the center peak. I keep talking because it occupies the silence between us, keeps him from getting mouthy, keeps him subdued. “I want to suck your nipples, kitten. I want to lick them. Let me? Tell me what feels good, kitten? I want to make you feel good, I really, really do.”

He gasps, and I take the opportunity to kiss him. Slow and soft, the way he hates, but for the first time in a long time, he lets me lead. He situates himself so that he’s straddling me now, his arms cradling the back of my head. Even though he’s above me now, he’s passive. Calm. His heart is beating against mine, responding to the mellow brand of arousal building between us.

He tastes like bitter chocolates and salted caramel and what the hell ever fruit fermented to make this champagne. His skin is slick and silky against mine, hot from the bath. I feel the beginnings of his erection pressing against my stomach. I give him a few leisurely strokes before ending the kiss. He’s glaring at me again.

“Why do you always look like you’re livid with me?”

“Because I usually am. You’re a very irritating man.”

I chuckle, burying my head beneath his chin. “This isn’t so bad though, is it?”

I feel him shake his head in the negative, then rest his chin on the top of my head. It’s a strange movement. His hesitancy tells me he’s uneasy about this position. He remains a moment or two longer then says, “Okay, I’m cold.” He releases me, turns back around and submerges the majority of his torso beneath the hot water and bubbles.

Once he’s resting comfortably against my chest, I ask, “Can I play with your cock?”

He snorts, but there’s no derision. “Funny way to phrase it.”

“Stop picking apart my verbiage.” His cock firms up in my hand as I start to languidly run my fingers along the length. “Drink some more champagne. You’re more pleasant intoxicated than sober.”

“The petals are a nice touch.” One floats in a puddle in the palm of his hand. He shivers again as I lean in to nip at his neck. “How many other lucky ladies got this treatment?”

“Well, if you must know,” I say between bouts of mouthing at his neck, “you’re the only one that’s ever taken this amount of work.”

I feel him smile. “It’s been . . . pleasant, I’ll admit.”

“What’s that?”

“The--” his spine stiffens when I surprise him with a more forceful tug “--the suit, the breakfast in bed, all that. The things that actual couples do.”

“We are an actual couple.”

“I can’t give you what you want, Sebastian.”

“That doesn’t change anything, though.” Suddenly, everything clicks in my head. I think I might actually have some understanding of what’s happening in Jim’s head. “This isn’t a business transaction; it’s not a tit for tat situation. It’s not a matter of ‘Oh you can’t give me what I want so I’ll go elsewhere.’ If that were the case, I wouldn’t’ve stuck around for this long.”

“But Evelyn--”

“Listen, love, if I didn’t love you, I would’ve grabbed Evey and gotten the hell outta dodge that time you were in the hospital. I was angry with you for a long time because you asked me to stay, but ultimately I made the choice to stay. I’m here because I want to be here.”

He’s quiet. I tilt my head to the side just enough to see the flush of his cheeks. His eyes are half-lidded, his mouth hanging open, panting silently.

“Tell me this feels good, Jim.”

He nods lazily.

“Can I ask you something?”

He shrugs. His head lolls lazily to the side. His body is starting to tense and his hips buck against my hand. A soft whimper escapes his lips

“Hey, relax. No rush. Just enjoy this.”

The hard line of his spine softens, settling against the curve of me, but his shoulders stay taut. He tops off his glass, and bites into a piece of chocolate. I skate the blunt edges of my nails along the underside of his cock, making him jerk. “If we’re still doing this in an hour, I’ll skin you.” He’s too breathless to sound threatening.

I take the wrist off the hand holding the chocolate and guide it to my mouth. I suck the morsel from his fingertips, then the melted chocolate from his skin. Jim’s eyes are glued on the spot where his fingers disappear against my lips. “You were going to ask me something?”

Once his fingers are thoroughly clean, I answer him. “Oh. Yes. Has anyone ever wooed you like this?”

“I don’t do . . . I don’t do backstories, Tiger.”

“I know. I’m just curious.” I lean in to whisper in his ear. “I have a confession to make.” I squeeze his erection. His gasp verges on a yelp. “Do you know what I did all day?”

He swallows thickly. “No.”

The hand that’s not slowly jerking him off emerges from the tub to tease his nipple again. “Well, for starters, I bought a toy last week. A plug.”

He moans as he shivers against me.

“I’ve been sort of afraid of it, you know. It’s not big per se, but it’s new. Bigger than anything I’ve put inside myself before.”

This really piques his interest. He cranes his neck to look at me.

“It’s not in right now, of course. It definitely impedes movement. It hurt for a lot longer than I thought it would, but maybe I was just tense.”

His voice is hoarse. “Why?”

“Wanted to be ready. In case you asked.” I’m cheating now. It’s as if I hit a deer in the middle of the street, shot it and then swore up and down that I’d hunted it. I’m not proud, though. Not anymore.

“Asked?”

“Asked me to take you to bed.”

The frantic energy resurfaces in him and his lips are on mine, his teeth bearing into my lips and tongue. He twists around again so that we’re chest to chest and water and bubbles splash out of the tub. He grinds his cock against my own growing erection, whining like a dog.

“If I asked, would you let me fuck you?”

“Of course, kitten.” With one hand, I start to jerk off both of us, nice and slow. “Just be gentle.”

His hands wind their way into my hair, unable to get any real purchase since it’s so short. He kisses me again, tasting just as desperate as he did that evening in November the first time I had him.

“I want to be good to you,” I repeat. “Relax, relax, there’s plenty of time.”

“I want to fuck you,” he growls. His thighs squeeze around my waist.

“All you have to do is ask.”

“Basher?”

“Hm?”

“Take me to bed?”


	35. Night: Victory

_ Friday | Basher’s POV _

The idea of Jim penetrating me is terrifying, and as I’m toweling off, I almost start to retreat. The plug felt intrusive, not at all pleasurable, and it was difficult to relax the muscles that were desperately trying to keep the new object out. But I have to do this for him. Because he asked. Because I can endure a bit of discomfort to prove to him that his pleasure is important to me.

Deep breaths.

_ Inhale. _

_ Hold. Hold. Hold. _

_ Exhale for one, two, three . . . _

Jim’s eyes are on me. I offer him what I hope is a self-assured grin, but he must see through it because he asks me, “Are you nervous?”

In one fell (obviously over-compensatory) swoop, I lift him off the ground, carrying him like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. “Just a bit.” I smile down at the damp, naked man in my arms.

That flirty, lethal grin that screams Moriarty appears, and I’m more than happy and terrified to see it. “My big bad tiger is really just a little cub.” He pulls me down for a surprisingly sweet if not possessive kiss, his fingers threading through the short hairs on my neck. “Have no fear; I can be oh-so-gentle.”  

Shivers run down my spine.  I love this side of Jim. “Now I’m just plain frightened.”

His grin broadens, the light leaving those black eyes so that he looks like the monster I met all those years ago. “Am I really your first?” he asks as I carry him to his bed.

“Popping my anal cherry, you are.”

“I’m surprised.”

I lay him down on the bed, pinning his body below mine. “Why’s that?”

“None of the girls you fucked wanted to finger you?”

“Nope.”

“I bet they did. They just didn’t say anything.” He abruptly switches gears and cups my face with both hands to pull me down for a long, sweet kiss that’s more lips than tongue. He purrs against my mouth, tugging me closer to me. “Aside from the plug, what other prep work have you done?”

I roll off of him, reaching for the drawer on his nightstand. “I don’t go into anything blindly except a fight. I’ve done my research.” The burn on my face spreads to my neck. “I’m all nice and clean, food consumption was timed for the occasion, and you’ll be using this lubricant or no deal.”

He reads the label and smirks. “Really? Two percent lidocaine?”

The heat of embarrassment increases. I must be crimson at this point. “Keep talking, and you can forget the whole thing.”

He reaches out to trace the scars along my face. “You’ve been shot, beaten, stabbed--but _ this _ is what you need a numbing agent for?”

“I’m not into pain, kitten.”

Jim’s eyes scan my face. He strokes my bottom lip with his thumb. “Not at all?” The way he asks the question makes affection swell in my chest. He’s not taunting me, and he’s not overly sentimental either. Something about his expression makes it seem like it would be completely normal for him to ask me, “How can I make this good for you?”

And, since I’m not a liar, I’m floored. Who the fuck did Jim just become? And how do I answer that question? Anisa was a biter, and that was enjoyable in the heat of the moment. But when Mycroft’s personal assistant electrocuted me, sex was the last thing on my mind.

“Yeah, no, not at all, I guess. I mean, I guess . . . that’s a complicated question, and not one I want to explore tonight.”

Something cold and calculating washes over his face. “Fair enough.” And just as quickly he looks kind and loving, and I have to wonder how much of this is show and how much of it is legitimate. Is he even capable of feeling kind and loving? If all of his masks were stripped away, what would remain? Would he even be recognizable?

I flop onto the bed, arms spread dramatically. “So, how do you want me?”

Jim skims his palm over my abdomen, up my chest, licking his lips absently. His eyes trail up my body slowly until they’re boring into mine. My stomach flips. The darkness in his eyes is overwhelming. There’s not even a reflection of the lamplight in them. A shadow of something predatory skates across his face then vanishes. He entirely erases emotion from his face and tone and asks, “Would you prefer to be on your back, on your knees, or on your stomach?”

I shake my head. My courage is fading fast. “Up to you, boss.” The epithet comes out but I don’t know why.

“I’m trying to salvage your sense of masculinity.” His tone is colder than I like. “Is face-to-face while I fuck you too much? Or is being on your knees, arse in the air too submissive?”

My mouth is dry. I try not to choke on my words. “You’re the one with intimacy issues.”

A frown deepens the lines in his forehead. “Basher,” he warns.

“If I was one of your one night stands, how would you have me?”

He sighs. “To be candid, Tiger, I’ve only ever penetrated those I would immediately kill afterwards.”

All of the blood drains from my face, and I think my dick probably shrivels. And this bizarre jealous side of me rears its ugly head. “Why didn’t you have me kill them?”

“You did sometimes. But sometimes you just want the hands on experience.” He grins broadly, reveling in the shiver running down my spine.

“Well then. That’s rather . . . sphincter-tightening.”

He laughs a genuine laugh, one that seems to be free of ulterior motives. He briefly buries his face in my neck before sitting up again. “Okay, Tiger, leave it to me. Lay on your stomach.”

The order is both comforting and disappointing. On the one hand, I won’t have to face my defiler while my manhood is essentially ripped from me. On the other, I won’t be able to read Jim’s face. “Don’t murder me,” I tell him after a long silence. “I mean it.” I roll over onto my stomach, feeling exposed and vulnerable and not in a sexy way.

I feel like I’m in one of those dreams where you’re naked at a very important event.

I hear Jim crack his knuckles behind me. My heart starts to pound uncomfortably.

“My big, brave tiger,” he murmurs, his palms drawing small, firm circles down my shoulder blades, my flanks, my lower back.

Again, I’m very surprised that Jim appears to possess tenderness. He draws a line up my spine, the pressure spreading to ease the tension in my shoulders. A groan involuntarily leaves me. He works my back over for a long while, and I find myself drifting.

WHAT IF HE DRUGGED ME? penetrates the haze of sleep, and I jolt.

“Relax,” he says softly. I’m aware now that his hands are now firmly massaging my buttocks. “You’re tensing again.” He kneels closer, hands still on me, and asks, “I won’t hurt my pretty tiger. You’ve too much entertainment value.”

That provides more comfort than it should. Jim can probably live without love, but with his racing brain, he can’t live without entertainment. I (probably) won’t die or be permanently injured. Tonight.

I practice the deep breathing exercises I’d read about online.

“Good, that’s good.” He sounds like he’s far away. “Perfect.”

The realization that Jim is complimenting my body and not my attempts at relaxation brings with it a swell of pride. Jim thinks I’m sexy.

Jim wants to be here.

_ Jim wants me. _

“Good boy, just relax. That’s better.” His fingertips trail down to my sac, stroking the underside of my cock. “I’m going to touch you while I open you up. If you start to tense, it’ll hurt.”

I laugh knowingly. This afternoon’s session with the plug had not been enjoyable, even with the desensitizing lubricant.

A slippery finger massages my hole, the skin there beginning to tingle as the lidocaine takes effect. It’s not completely numbing, just enough to make things tolerable. “Usually,” Jim starts, his voice quiet and low, “I’d pull your hair. It’s a distraction technique. But I don’t usually spend a lot of time prepping my victims.”

The sound of his voice is a comfort. He’s with me. He’s here with me. (How weird is it that being fucked by a murderer is less terrifying than working a buttplug into yourself?) This isn’t happening to me; he’s working with me. (Is this Stockholm Syndrome?)

I’m mumbly when I say, “I’m not a victim.”

I can hear the smile on his face when he says, “No, you’re not.” He lightly pats my hip. “Up, just a bit. That’s better.” I feel a bit silly, arse in the air, but then he’s pumping my cock, and _ hail Mary full of grace it feels so good _ . He’s not used the lubricant there, so the sensation isn’t dampened at all, and I think maybe I can make out the ridges and whorls on his palm.

One finger slips inside of me. Heat washes over me.

_ No no no no. _

_ It’s okay. _

_ This is wrong. _

And then Jim’s pressing kisses against my lower back. “Sebastian,” he purrs, tone verging on playful condescension. Knowing it’s a ploy to help me relax doesn’t make it any less effective. “My big, strong soldier.” He gives my penis a particularly firm stroke. “You’ve taken such good care of me, haven’t you? Done so much for our little family. Relax, Tiger, breathe.”

He slips further inside me, and then--

_ FUCK. _

I don’t know if it’s painful or pleasurable, just that it’s an intense sensation, and I’m suddenly hyper aware of my dick, of the fresh bead of precum leaking from the head, and of the intimate intrusion. I think I might actually have squealed like a little bitch when Jim touched me there.

“There he is,” Jim chirrs, and honestly, it’s the most aroused I think I’ve ever heard him sound. He brushes against that spot again, and the entirety of my mid-section feels like it’s vibrating.  _ Holy shit, what’s happening? _

I’d read about the prep, about the logistics of anal sex, but somehow I’d managed to overlook research of what it actually feels like.

I’m not sure that I like it.

I’m not sure that I don’t like it.

“That feels good, doesn’t it, Tiger?”

I pant back, “‘s’weird.”  My panic has led to decreased sensation in my fingers.

“Just wait.” He runs the tip of his finger around the edges of my prostate while swirling his thumb over the head of my cock, and I’m overwhelmed. I’m squirming, unsure if I want more or escape. “Keep still. Good boy. Let’s try that again.”

It feels marginally more pleasurable when he repeats the action. My dick feels harder than I can ever remember, and the fear and resentment at being penetrated starts to dissipate.

“Okay?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Tell Daddy what’s wrong.”

I chuckle into the pillow. Jim knows I hate that. It’s his way of teasing, I think. And the teasing makes this seem less scary, less like my identity is being altered and my body invaded. “It’s just . . . a lot.”

He continues to pump my erection, his fingers spreading the precum along my length. “But it feels good, doesn’t it, Tiger? When I do this,” he massages that goddamn spot, “you can feel it in your cock, can’t you?”

I nod, unable to answer.

“In that way, I can manipulate your cock without actually touching it.”

Goosebumps break out across my body. My cock twitches. The sensations of the internal massage and the external fondling start to bleed together and threaten to overwhelm me again. I’m tempted to bail out, not because it hurts, but because I have no idea how to process these sensations.

“You’re so sensitive, sweetheart.” He leans over my back to mouth at my neck. “Who would’ve guessed my vicious bodyguard assassin would be so sensitive on the inside?” He accentuates the last few words by increasing the pressure on my prostate, and I bury my face in the comforter to scream.

“You’re leaking, handsome. You’re soaking the bed.”

“Jim. . .” I don’t know why I say his name. I don’t know what I want from him. I’m sweaty and cold except for where Jim is touching me. I hate how much my tone sounds like a whine.

“You’re soaking  _ my _ bed.”

I whimper again.

“But that’s what you wanted, isn’t it, Tiger? To invade my routine? My life? You got it. You won.”

I laugh weakly into the bed. Pieces of courage return to me whenever he speaks to me. “Are you mocking me?”

“Only a bit. I mostly mean it.”

“Can--can you try just the sides of it? The edges?”

“Like this?”

I moan. “Yes.”

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

The shock wans and the intensity of the two sensations melts into something bearable if not enjoyable. Jim continues to murmur teasing words of approval, and somehow, it makes me feel warm and gushy. His skin on mine grounds me, keeps me far enough out of my head that I don’t chicken out.

The numbing agent in the lubricant lessens the sting when he introduces a second finger. I constantly remind myself that being penetrated is not inherently emasculating, that I’m not the “girl” in our relationship.

“I’m going to spread you now. You might feel a little cramping.” As he scissors his fingers, his other hand kneads my lower back. I wonder if maybe Jim was a massage therapist for one of his covers because he’s remarkably good at pinching the right spots to loosen muscle and break up tight fascia. “There we are. What a good boy. Oh Tiger, you’re being so good for me. Touch yourself, just while you adjust.” He laughs. “You’re adorably blushy. It’s a glorious juxtaposition.”

The burn on my face has traveled down to my torso, and I suddenly remember something I’d read about spontaneous human combustion. I imagine the victims of such an event probably were also getting anally penetrated by their boyfriends, because I’m at least ninety-seven perfect sure that the heat radiating off of my face is going to catch Jim’s bedspread on fire.

“Come on, Tiger,” he teases, his voice low. “Touch yourself.”

I groan.

“Please? For me?” he mock-begs. “I wanna see it, please, Mr. Tiger? I’ll be so good for you.”

I chuckle nervously into the pillow. “God, you’re such a bastard.” I reach beneath me to start stroking my erection. It doesn’t feel as good as Jim’s erratic touch, but it definitely eases the tension in my lower back.

Jim sounds like he’s far away again, lost in the mist of his own arousal. “Yes, that’s beautiful. God, you’ve got gorgeous arms. And hands. I want those hands around my throat, around my cock, in my hair.” He’s sliding in and out at a purposely slow pace, teasing the outsides of the little spot inside of me that makes me leak like a goddamn faucet.

When he withdraws to get more lube, I’m shivering, unsure if I miss the fullness of his fingers inside of me or if I want to end the whole thing there and then. He digs his thumbs into the small of my back, drawing tight circles, releasing whatever remaining tension is there.

“Ready for three?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“You can always back out, Tiger.”

“Who knew the Professor of the Underground was such a considerate top?”

To his credit, he slips in three fingers carefully, even if he’s not particularly gentle. “Don’t get sassy, Tiger. I have a ginger oil that’s really not recommended for anal play, but I’m not opposed to using it.”

“That’s my Jim.”

He hums at this, sounding very pleased. “ _ Your _ Jim?”

“You’ve got three fingers up my arse; the least you can do is let me have that.”

“I’m not criticizing, Basher.” The hand that was massaging my back returns to my cock, batting my fist out of the way. “I might just like it. Remember? You told me I belonged to you?”

My back arches when he reaches my prostate again, not bothering to ease me into the touch. My heart races. I feel too full and the tips of his fingers pressing firmly against that spot is too much. “You got pissy about that.”

“I did. But you wanna know a secret?”

I can’t muster an answer. He’s easing his digits in and out of me. The pillow beneath my head is drenched in sweat or drool or a combination of both.

“It actually makes me feel safe now.”

My stomach flips. A weight evaporates from my shoulders.

“My big, strong hunter, protecting his little family. It evokes a very primitive sort of reaction in me, thinking of you lying to your captors about where we are, who you’re working for. Enduring torture to keep me safe and snug in our little flat.”

I think I’m moaning. I’m not sure. My head is swimmy with the combination of pride and arousal.

Jim must know the effect it has on me. I can hear the knowing-verging-on-haughty tone in his voice, but it doesn’t matter. He’s playing me, and he’s doing a great fucking job.

“And now, after all your hard work this week, well. . .I’ll probably get hard every time I smell sandalwood. You’ll have to come to my office, keep me in check. _Your Jim_ can be very naughty, Tiger. And there’s an adorable little research assistant ‘round the corner from my office--”

“I’ll fucking murder them.”

“Oh I know you would, Tiger. You’re not easily domesticated, are you? And what would you do with me, hm?”

“Can’t hurt you, Jim. I can’t do it.”

“Really? Not even if I begged you with tears of repentance? I would love it. My rugged Tiger having mercy on me, letting me suck you off. Jesus, Basher, I could come just thinking about it.”

My limbs start to feel like jelly. Tremors are coursing through my body like electric currents. My hips, to my dismay, are pressing back against him, and I have no control over any of it.

“You know, I tried to buy your services from Irene. She wouldn’t rent you out. And when I tried to get one of her other boys, she forbade it. Said she knew you wouldn’t take kindly to someone else handling  _ your Jim _ , and her insurance would skyrocket if you murdered one of her employees.”

I’m too gone to remind him that I worked as her bodyguard and not as a whore. The idea of Jim paying someone so I could fuck him is painfully hot. It wouldn’t be selfish or wrong--I would just be following orders. Like always.

“Don’t come, Tiger. Please wait. Can you wait? Because after I fuck you, I want your thick cock down my throat. No, shut it, pretty Tiger, you may have won, but don’t I deserve a little something too? A consolation prize? For being receptive to your advances?”

I can’t answer. The beginnings of what promises to be an intense orgasm are roiling in my groin.

“And God knows how sensitive you’d be after an orgasm triggered by both penile and anal stimulation.” His voice has taken on an element of darkness. “I’d probably have to tie you down, you’d be so desperate to get away. But I get what I want, Tiger. And I want your cock choking me until I cry.”

He withdraws again, earning him a long, pitiful whimper. I don’t know what I want anymore; I’m just a mass of desperation and lust. “I’m going to fuck you, Tiger, but I promise I’ll be slow. Getting the head in is the worst part. After that--it’s a piece of cake.”

He reaches into the drawer, withdrawing what I assume is his own lubricant and a condom. Moments pass, and he lets out this whorish moan that makes my cock ache. “Quit touching yourself!” The words slip out of my mouth before I even have time to process them, before I even realize that I’m jealous that he’s masturbating.

He chuckles evilly. “Just getting slicked up. You’ll thank me for it, rest assured.” Another suggestive moan.

“That’s enough,” I growl, glancing over my shoulder at him.

He moans again for show. “But it feels so good, Sebby.” He winks at me, mischievous as ever.

My temper flares. “Don’t call me that.” I reach behind me and grab his wrist, preventing him for touching himself further. “I’m not getting cheated out of my winnings because you’re a trollop.”

_ Reign it in, Moran. _ Don’t let the pervert provoke you into doing something violent.

His grin broadens. “Trollop?  I’m not the one with my arse in the air.”

Humiliation washes over me again, and I bury my face in the pillow.

Jim purrs above me, the head of his cock teasing the rim of my entrance. “That’s a good boy.” He reaches around, fondling my erection again, pulling another series of groans from me.

And then the pressure builds as he eases into me. “That’s it. That’s my pretty soldier.  My vicious beast. Relax. Jesus, you feel amazing, Tiger. Shh, shh, we’re almost there.” Jim’s body covers mine just as the discomfort gets to be too much. He nuzzles between my shoulderblades, vocalizing his pleasure with hums and groans.

Beneath him, I struggle to keep still. My lower back is starting to tense, almost like a muscle spasm.

_ It’s okay. This is for Jim. _

_ My Jim. _

The thought calms me enough that I’m not screaming when the head is fully inserted. I suddenly understand why women are so obsessed with foreplay. Jesus, Jim’s dick isn’t even that thick, but I feel like someone’s driving a wedge into me in preparation to split me open.

He’s gone silent.

“Jim?”

His voice is hoarse and dream-like. “It’s been . . . a while. And you’re still so tight.” He inhales deeply. “Tiger. . .” He sounds heartbreakingly lost.

“What? What do you need, kitten? What’s wrong?”

There’s a lull, an unusual beat before he speaks, and in that moment, I hope and pray that my lover will open up to me, that out of his mouth will pour vulnerability and devotion and a confession that maybe he didn’t like what Magnussen did to him, that this is better, that I’m better.

But that’s not who Jim is.

“It’s so strange, knowing I won’t blow your head off after this.”

I snort into the pillow. “You fuckin’ maniac.”

He starts to rock his hips minutely, and the pressure starts to build again. The tip of his cock teases the edge of my prostate, leaving me a shivery, uneasy puddle again.

_ Holy fuck, he’s inside me. _

_ I’m going to Hell. I’m on the expressway. _

_ Deep breaths. _

_ Inhale. _

_ Hold. Hold. Hold. _

_ Exhale for one, two, three . . . _

“Okay?” Jim asks.

“Yeah.”

“Can I go further?”

It’s stupid, but I really am touched that Jim’s not just going at this like a wild man. “I think so. Just slow.”

“You’re the boss,” he says wickedly.

I turn my head just enough so that he can see me roll my eyes. “Bastard.”

He presses deeper into me, and I completely forget how to breathe. Whereas his fingers were spaced and uneven and provided a respite, his prick fills me, pushing up against that one goddamn sweet spot that I swear to God if I survive this I’m going to have removed. There’s no escaping the pressure now, and it consumes me.

Jim is hissing his pleasure above me. He’s stopped jerking me off, both of his hands digging into my hips, leaving nail indentations in the skin. “Why’d you have to use that damned numbing lube?” he grumbles. “I could’ve avoided wearing a condom, and then I could really feel you.”

The thought of his bare skin, slick and wet inside of me, pressing that agonizing button thrills and disgusts me. He slides in a bit further, and I have to bury my face in the pillow again to muffle the shout. I honestly don’t know if this is pain or pleasure and the sensations are just too much. “Jim, please, please touch me. It’s . . . it’s almost too much.”

“Of course, Tiger,” he says sweetly. He begins a languid pace, tugging and teasing my erection. “But you have to promise not to come. Promise?”

“Kitten, right now, I’m trying to panic.”

He presses a kiss between my shoulderblades. “Mm, my brave tiger. Letting me play with him. Letting me _ push _ him. So good for me. To me.” He’s deeper now. He settles against me, remaining still save for his lips against my back. “You’re just oozing testosterone and muscles and predation. In fact, it’s all over my sheets, now. You’re just blending into every aspect of my life, aren’t you, handsome?”

“Keep talking.” I need him to.

“Bossy little bottom, aren’t you?” He squeezes me, making me choke on my retort. “I’m going to move now.” There’s room in the statement for my objections.

The first thrust (if it can be called that since Jim is mercifully gentle) is shocking. I can feel every vein, every ridge of his cock as it slides against my rim, and that’s a bizarre feeling. I can feel him slip deeper into me, the width of him torturing my prostate, the length of him touching new, tender areas that his fingers somehow missed.

A frightened noise exits my throat. So much for a brave tiger. Jim’s free hand massages the length of my spine, expertly taming the physical tension growing there as he moves in and out of me. “After that filthy series of voicemails you left me, I’ve spent all week hoping you’d sneak into my room, hoping you’d ravage me. Imagining you in my bed, touching yourself. You’ve got a beautiful cock, Bash. Thick and long. I wanted to see you edge yourself, tease yourself to the point of climax and back down with that soldier’s self-discipline.

“I’ve daydreamed about that willpower, you pounding into me after I’ve already come, demanding that I come again even though I’m oh-so-sore and sensitive. And you’re so sentimental, I can’t beg you to stop because you might do just that.”

His voice falters. I can hear him panting.

“Close already?” I tease him, though my voice sounds more like a frightened child.

“I’ve been on edge all week because of you, slut,” he growls, thrusting harder so that I whimper. “And I certainly don’t have your self-control.” His movements are becoming more erratic. He goes silent, the sound of his skin hitting mine echoing through the room.

And the sound coupled with the sensation is too much. “Tell me this is good, Jim.” I sound like I’m begging. I think maybe I am. “Tell me this is good for you.”

“It is, Tiger. Sinfully good. Fucking a beast of a man, watching my cock slide in and out of you. Knowing you presented yourself for the taking. To me.” He groans, this thrust going too deep. I cry out, arching my back. “Sorry, sorry, Sebastian. My poor, long-suffering Tiger. Daddy didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I don’t correct him this time. I cry out as he changes angles so that now his thrusts are shallow and his trajectory is focused solely on that sensitive little button inside of me. “Is this better?”

“You know fucking well it isn’t!”

“You’re so sensitive there. I love it. I could teach you to come from anal play alone if you let me.”

“It hurts.”

“No, pretty kitty, no, no, it’s intense. It’s a lot. But Daddy won’t hurt you. I’m very good with my toys until it’s time to throw them out.”

He bucks more forcefully into me, hitting that spot harder and harder until I’m whining with every inward stroke, trying my best to squirm away. “You can’t throw me out,” I warn him.

I see stars when his thumb swirls over the head of my dick. “No, not with your exemplary masculinity and loyalty. Fuck, Bash, you feel so tight; so good. Ride me one day? I wanna see how much you take on your own. I wanna see your face, when I fuck you. If I didn’t think it would hurt too much, I would flip you over now and take you face-to-face. See your face when I come inside of you.”

“Ah, so romantic,” I tease.

He manages a laugh, but the truth of the matter is that Moriarty is close, so close. His pacing has gotten off and his depth perception is way off because he’s way too deep inside. He’s just bucking now, into tight, hot, wet heat, and I can appreciate that can make thinking a tad difficult. I’ll be damned if he’s not doing his best not to hurt me.

“How close?”

“Close.”

“Come on, kitten, fuck me hard, come for me. Show me who’s boss?” I taunt him, flashing a smile over my shoulder.

His eyes are gray, gone. He fucks into me harder so that he’s nearly completely sheathed inside me. He’s so deep now. I can’t breathe. He pushes further in. He works my cock frantically.

His hipbones are pressing into the swell of my buttocks as he bucks. He’s pulled my hips closer. He can’t go any deeper, so he rocks back and forth, groaning and moaning and saying my name.

And even though it hurts, even though it’s uncomfortable, I know he’s not done any permanent damage, and I goad him on. “Come, kitten, come for your Tiger. I worked so hard all week to get your attention, show me it was worth it. Show me and you can suck me off, just like you want, yeah?”

He is beyond words now, bucking and grunting, tenderness gone out the window. Despite my preservation instincts telling me to avoid the discomfort, I grind back against him and he sobs. Again. I can feel him tense.

“Harder, boss. Fuck me like the wanton thing you are.”

One last frantic thrust and his body trembles against me. He comes with a muffled groan, his teeth embedding in my arm. Warm spurts of semen fill the condom, and I’m very glad for that little piece of latex.

Well. Thank God that’s over. I think.

His erection softens, and the pressure that has been building inside of me gets a reprieve. Jim’s being inside of me is less intimidating when he’s flaccid. He eases his way out, but I still whimper when he catches the rim.

After disposing of the condom, Jim rests against me, panting and stroking my flanks with shaky hands.

“Kitten?”

“Mm?”

“Before that, when was the last time you came?”

“That’s not a very gentlemanly thing to ask.”

“Has it been awhile?”

“If you’re asking if I’ve slept with anyone else, I haven’t. Now shut up, I’m trying to enjoy the afterglow.”

Delicately, I roll over onto my back so that I can wrap my arms around him. “I don’t do post-coital cuddles,” he tells me, yet does nothing to fight me off. My erection brushes against his thigh as I situate him against my chest. “Oh God, Tiger, you’re so thick and hard.” I swear to God, he’s whimpering.

“Do you want to watch me take care of it, kitten?”

He shakes his head. “I want you to fuck my throat.”

“No, you’re a sleepy little kitten,” I tease. “You’ve been wined and dined and coerced into bed. Just watch.”

“Don’t fucking touch it,” he growls, baring his teeth like an animal. “Give me a moment to recover and I’ll finish you properly.”

“Ooh, I don’t know if I like that phrasing, considering you kill your bedmates fairly regularly.”

He grumbles into my chest. He runs his fingers through my chest hair, tracing the lines of sinew beneath my skin. With his other hand, he strokes the underside of my cock, teasing the vein there.

“Don’t tease, please, kitten. I’m already overwhelmed.”

He slides down toward the foot of the bed, the grace of a reptile returning to his motions. He licks a long strip up the length of me, pulling a groan from me before taking me in his mouth. Since he’s mostly sober, I think it’s harder to take all of me at once like he did those few weeks ago. He manages about two thirds of the way down, then swallows around me.

He bobs back up, takes a deep breath and pops back down, this time successfully swallowing me to the root.

“Jesus, Jim,” I breathe. “You’re a piece of work.”

He laughs through the mouthful and begins to bob his head up and down. I can see the line of my cock in his throat and it both arouses and worries me. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

He looks up to glare at me.

I reach out to stroke his hair, and he lets out this sweet little hum, leaning into the touch. He glances up at me again, ever so briefly, and I feel like I could just drown in those eyes.

I make show of it, moaning and bucking here and there, until I come down his throat. There are tears in his eyes and his face is red when he’s finished, and I pull him into my lap to cuddle him. After that whole ordeal, I’m feeling more affectionate than usual. Needier too.

Eventually though, Jim grows tired of the contact, and he weasels his way out of my arms, scooching to the far side of the bed and burying himself under blankets. I’ve rolled over onto my side and am dozing when I hear, “Sebastian?”

I roll over to face Jim, but he stops me. “No! Roll back over. Face the other way.”

“Oh, sorry,” I yawn. “Thought you said my name.”

“I did. NO! Don’t roll over. Look at the wall.”

“What?”

“I’m trying to tell you something, you idiot. NO! If you can’t follow directions you can sleep in your own bed.”

I chuckle, still high on post-coital reward chemicals. “Bitch, this is my bed now. My precum is all over your side of the bed.”

“You’re disgusting. BASHER! Stop touching me. Now get on your side of the bed.”

With a sigh, I scoot to the other side, rolling onto my side to look away from Jim.

“Now,” he begins, his voice soft. “Stay on your side.”

“Okay, I am.”

“Now, then.” He clears his throat. In a very cold, calculating voice, one that leaves no room for misunderstandings or errors, he says, “I’ve been considering it all week, and I’ve come to the conclusion that--” the briefest of pauses, the smallest hesitation, “I love you. NO! STAY ON YOUR SIDE!” His foot catches me in the kidney. “It’s not up for discussion. I don’t do cuddles. Good night.” He flips off the lamp by his side of the bed. “Stop looking at me.”

“Jim?”

“No.”

“Just one kiss?”

“No.”

I take one anyway.


	36. The Spoils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for rape-y dream sequence.

_Saturday | Basher’s POV_

I’m watching particles of sunlight creep into the bedroom and splash over Jim’s face. He stirs a little when they get too close to his eyes, but otherwise he’s still sleeping peacefully, curled up on one side, facing away from me.

Last night’s activities may have pushed me past the lingering resentment, and I think he’s gotten past whatever barrier kept him from truly trusting me. Even so, despite the flood of sentimentality and declarations of love, I know it’s a good idea to not touch Jim while he’s sleeping. I want to, though. I want to run my fingers through his hair, and I want to pull him against me. I’m resigned to watching him sleep for awhile. When did I become so boring?

One eye pops opens, catches sight of me, and Jim groans. “Sharing a bed again, are we?” He snuggles deeper beneath the covers, hiding from the sun.

I fish him out and meld my body against the curve of his back. I press a kiss to his cheek. He groans again but doesn’t fight me. “Go close the curtains.” He points limply at the sunshine flickering in between the slats in the blinds.

“No.”

He grimaces. “Ugh, morning breath. At least rinse your mouth out before slobbering all over me.” He covers his face with the comforter again. We’re quiet again. He settles against me.

“Jim?”

“Hm?”

“If you’re going to sell drugs, I want in.”

“Fuck’s sake, not this again,” he grumbles.

“I mean it, kitten.”

He tosses the blanket off of his face and rolls onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. “Is this about money?”

“No, and it’s not because I feel emasculated, it’s not because I’m bored. I want in because our lives are irreparably intertwined now.”

“So?”

“So, I want to be apart of every aspect of your life, regardless of what it entails.”

“Codependence, then. You want me to be dependent on you.”

“No.” I prop myself up on my elbow. “Do you remember when Susan started cycling?”

“Who?”

“Our neighbor in Texas. The lesbian baptist?”

“Right.”

“Susan started cycling and Amber hated it, but she did it with Susan because she wanted to be apart of her life.”

Jim blinks. “Producing and selling hard drugs and riding a bicycle are two very different hobbies.”

God, he’s so fucking irritating when he’s being obtuse. “Fine, you wanna be a little bitch about, that’s fine. We’ll come at it a different way. Why is it so important to keep me out of that part of your life?”

He goes stiff and silent and stares at the ceiling. I wait. More silence. I roll over onto my back. We lay like that for a long while.

“To be clear,” he finally says, “this is not pillow talk.”

“Okay.”

“Nor is it an invitation to discuss my ‘feelings’ or my ‘backstory’ or whatever else you may have romanticized about me.”

“Okay.”

“Take what I’m about to say the way that it is intended. Do you understand, tiger?”

“Okay.”

“It’s always just been me. I’ve had hired hands, and I’ve had underlings, but at the end of the day, it’s always just been me.”

“You had partners.”

“I had people I worked with and then killed.”

“Why did you kill them?”

“Because I like it being just me.”

I let that settle over us. “So why’d you adopt Evey?”

“I told you,” he says curtly. “She was perfect.”

“I think you were lonely, kitten.”

He lets out a roar and shoots out of the bed. “Good God, what did I just tell you about romanticizing me? Where’s my robe?”

I manage to grab his hand and pull him back to the bed, still naked as the day he was born. “Calm down, kitten, we’re just talking.”

“I’m not so pedestrian to get lonely.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not!”

“I believe you.”

“No, you don’t!”

I shush him and maneuver him back beneath the blankets. We’ve essentially swapped sides now. I nuzzle into the crook of his neck. I feel the small hairs rise over his body as he shivers.

“It’s not been ‘just you’ for, what, six years now.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“And I’ve been around for, what, four years now.”

He snorts. “Comin’ ‘round once a month doesn’t count.”

My voice gets a little sterner. “When in the last seven years have you ever needed me that I wasn’t right there, eh?”

“You can’t count at least three of those years. You were just on my payroll.”

I sigh, a sinking feeling settling in my gut. I thought we were past this now, but apparently I was wrong. I roll out of the bed, feeling more than a little stupid. I throw on my trousers and open the bedroom door to get breakfast started.

“You’re just going to give up that easily?”

I shrug. “‘S’all I got, Jim.”

He sits up, clearly unimpressed. “You spend all week trying to get a leg over, but you can’t spare ten minutes to get in on a scheme.”

I half-smile. “I shouldn’t have to fight my way into a place in your life that doesn’t involve our daughter. Just like I shouldn’t’ve had to spend a week trying to seduce my boyfriend.”

He whines, flopping back down beneath the sheets. “You’re just _so bad_ at sex, Basher.”

I growl at him. “You are literally the only person who has ever complained, you weird little fuck.”

“You wanna know who the best I’ve ever had was?”

A cold sweat washes over me. _Please don’t say Magnussen. Please don’t say Magnussen._ “No I fucking don’t.”

He peers out from the blankets again, grinning at my discomfort. “Guess.”

“No.”

“Come on, Tiger, play with me.” He crawls out of the covers to the edge of the bed, giving me those flaming, painfully intense bedroom eyes that I never know are sincere. I get the vague notion that Jim is flirting with me, as in legitimately flirting in his weird “violate-me” way. Is he trying to get me mad so that I’ll get violent? The thought makes me a little ill. “Guess.”

“Jim, I don’t wanna play.”

“Guess, Tiger. Guess, guess, guess,” he chants.

In defeat, I offer up, “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Wrong.” He wags his arse playfully, then rolls over onto his back, his head hanging off the foot of the bed.

I sigh. “Mycroft Holmes.”

He scowls. “Ugh, no! You’re not even trying.” He actually looks like a kitten trying to entice its human to play.

“I don’t know! Who?”

“One more guess. Come on, just one more guess.”

“Er . . . that one surgeon.  Roylott?”

“Um, no, that would be like fucking a can of off-brand vanilla icing.” He sits up on his knees and motions me over. “Come here, come here, come here.” With some hesitation, I obey, and he rests his arms around my waist. He’s fucking manic and crazy and I know he’s toying with me, but we had such a good night last night, and it’s so nice to be so close, I let myself get lured in.

“The best I’ve ever had,” he says slowly and begins stroking my chest, “is…”

My heart is actually starting to race a little bit. I don’t know if it’s jealousy or the hope that maybe, just maybe, the answer is me.

“...Irene Adler.”

“FUCK’S SAKE, JIM!” I shove him backward, using the momentum to get the hell out of dodge. “A goddamn woman??”

“Don’t swear! Evelyn might be awake!” He’s smiling like the Cheshire Cat, proud of himself for flustering me so. “Come here, tiger.” He gets off the bed, reaching for me.

“No, don’t touch me.” I jerk out of his reach and make my way to the kitchen. A minute or so later, he emerges, still beaming like a cat-eating canary, dressed in his overly luxurious robe.

“C’mon, Tiger,” he purrs, almost sounding condescending.  He embraces me from behind while I start the coffee. “Sometimes you just need someone to tie you down and ignore your safeword.”

Bloody hell. I hate it when he says things like that. I know that Jim is Jim, and he probably just appeared on the Earth one day as an adult male, ready to wreak havoc upon mankind, but I sometimes I wonder if he was abused. If he can’t differentiate between affection and abuse. And see, I remember. I remember how much I loathed my father. How much I hated my mother for being so goddamn weak, for letting it happen over and over again. How powerless little Sebastian felt when his father called him to the basement.

And the fact that Jim sees that as a good thing . . . just doesn’t set right with me. It makes me cringe.

And the bastard is revelling in my discomfort.

But you know what? I’ve said it before--James Moriarty has shown his belly, and I can turn the goddamn tables.

Turning around to face him, I soften my features, locking my eyes on his. We’re both still as I stare into those black eyes until I can make out the edges of even darker pupils. The beginnings of confusion fall around his features. He tries to determine my motives as I lift him up and set him on the counter before me, spreading his legs so that I fit neatly between his thighs.

I coax one of his wayward locks back into place, intentionally ghosting my fingertips over the back of his neck, making him shiver. I cup his cheek. His breath hitches. My thumb traces over his bottom lip.

The eye contact gets to be too much for him and he averts his gaz. It’s a victory for me. I’ve made the Consulting Criminal uncomfortable.

“I think, Professor Moriarty,” I lean in closer, and his eyes nearly close, his gaze focused on my mouth, “that you’re trying to provoke me. I think you want me to take you back to your fancy, over-sized bed and fuck you until you can’t remember your own name.” I barely touch my lips to his for the shortest of moments. He’s holding his breath.

_Haha, you manipulative wanker._

He parts his lips, anticipating a real kiss. I stroke his bottom lip again, making him wait. “But, Jim, you should know by now, you don’t have to provoke me.”

My hands slide up his thighs and I hear the small sound of a whimper catch in his throat. “All you have to do is ask.” A small kiss to the corner of his mouth. “All you have to do is ask,” another kiss to the opposite corner, “and I’ll take you back to your bed.” A firmer kiss against his mouth. “And I’ll massage your thighs and suck your fingers and kiss your neck until you’re ready and then I’ll do everything in my power to touch all those good sensitive spots, to make you tingle all over, until you just . . .”

He pounces, tugging my hair to bring me in for a fierce kiss. “Don’t play with me, Tiger!” I chuckle against his lips because it’s about bloody time I got a victory in our ongoing game of Gay Chicken. “I’m still the boss, you arsehole,” he grumbles against my lips.

I hum my assent.

“I mean it!”

He tries to affect my pace, my intensity, but I don’t let him. I stroke his back while he kisses me with disproportionate urgency and frustration. I stroke his cock beneath the robe, pleased at his eagerness. He keens, slowing and softening his onslaught on my lips.

“I’m in charge,” he pouts between kisses.

“Always, kitten.”

“I mean it,” he repeats.

“I know.”

“Stop jerking me off in the kitchen.” He tries to sound fierce and dominating, like it’s a hierarchy and not a (admittedly unhealthy) loving relationship. “Take me back to my room. And actually fucking try this time, eh?”

I give his thigh an affectionate squeeze. “You gonna let me work with you on your little side projects?”

He groans again, knocking his head against my collar bone. “I’m the boss!”

“Always, boss.”

“And you do what I tell you.”

“‘Course.”

“It’s not you and me, understand? It’s just me. And then you. In the background. Watching Evelyn.”

~~

_Sunday | Jim’s POV_

_1997_

_His arms hang limply above him, purely for the aesthetic it provides.  His shoulders have been dislocated, so he couldn't move them if he tried.  His fingertips are starting to go numb, and endorphins are flooding his body, so the agony in his shoulders is almost bearable now.  Just almost._

_Magnussen is speaking to him in a soft voice, but he can't make out the words over his own screaming into the gag._

_He whites out for a second or two.  He's been slapped, he realizes. The heat and ache in his cheek meld with the stabbing pain in his shoulders, the burning in his chest from the beating he'd taken earlier.  His head throbs, and his eyes sting. He couldn't safeword if he wanted to. Not that they'd agreed on one. Or even discussed it._

_He's unhooked, and his arms falls gracelessly to his side.  New elements of pain rush through him._

_Magnussen pins his victim's face to the cold wooden floor with his boot.  No, not victim. Never victim. Lover._

_He lifts his hips, positioning him for the taking._

_"No," the lover mumbles through the gag.  "Please."_

_And no attention is paid, of course, because it never is, because this is what he came for.  What he keeps coming for. The boot leaves his face and he stays in place simply because he always does when it gets to this point._

_There's plenty of lubrication applied to the latex-ed cock, but no preparation and the victim--the lover--shrieks as he's split apart._

I'm sitting up before my eyes open, before I can even register that it was a dream.  Or rather a memory played out during sleep. Except it's incorrect.

It's a happy memory, one I return to when Basher's gentle caresses and kisses can't slake my lust, when the day-to-day mediocrity of life gets to be too much, when I just need something _more_.  And yet, in this dream . . . I was--what's the word? Afraid? Resistant? Unwilling?

That wasn't how it happened.  

That's _never_ how it happened.  

My brain is overexerting itself, it would seem.  Perhaps because Basher was so boring tonight. Just _frot, frot, frot,_ and some soft words.  I needed the stimulation and my brain provided, but it decided to toss in an extra element, thus the fear.  Ruining what should have been a pleasant dream, turning it into a nightmare.  

Maybe?

Maybe that is how it happened.  Maybe I didn't--

That's absurd.  I'm never the victim.  Since I was twelve, I've never been in any position I didn't want to be in.  No one gets to me. Nothing happens that I don't permit.

My eyes adjust to the darkness and I can make out Basher's bulky silhouette, turned on his side, facing away from me.  I start to reach for him, but I don't know why, I didn't explicitly tell my hand or my arm to do that, and so I retreat.  I realize I'm shaking. My hand and my arm may as well be made of lead because I can't keep it up without tremendous exertion.  

My heart is racing, as well.  The way it races when I think something might be wrong with my daughter.  With great effort, I wipe my temple. Cold sweat against clammy skin.

For reasons I can't pinpoint, a scream is building at the back of my throat.  

_Why did I remember it wrong?  Why did I dream it wrong?_

_That's not how it happened._

Everything was right except for the _emotion_.  I wasn't afraid in reality. Only in the dream was I frightened.

I reach for Basher once more, and again I don't know why.  My arm is faster this time, like it's trying to reach him before my brain shuts it down.  He's warm and solid against my palm, and I press further because _I need it._

He stirs, taking what seems like an eternity to emerge from sleep.  He rolls onto his back and rubs his eyes. "Jim?"

I don't answer.  He sits up to, urgency changing his shape.  "Jim? You okay?"

I freeze.  I order myself not to scream, to shake away whatever made-up feelings the dream left behind.  I feel like the remains of a wild-fire, just scorched Earth and devastation and silence. _I will not scream_.   _Dreams are not real._   _That wasn't reality.  That wasn't real._

I'll be damned if I tell him I'm scared.  Fear's not real, is it? It's just chemicals, a biological impulse to protect yourself--

I can't breathe.  I can't breathe because if I do it will be too loud, and it will make the fear true.  He reaches for me, and I don't want to be touched for the same reason.  If he touches me, it means I'm real, that this fear is real, that I reached for him because I was frightened.  If he touches me, someone else will know that tremors are washing over me, that I'm cold and clammy, that something got to me, something that wasn't even real.'

_I need him to touch me because I need him to be real._

"I have a headache," I lie.

He clucks his tongue in sympathy.  The form of him relaxes with the confirmation that it's not serious.  "I'm sorry, kitten."

 _Kitten_.  Not _slut,_ not _bitch_ , not _faggot_.   _Kitten._

Something sucks the air out of the room.  I couldn't breathe if I wanted to.

"Rub my neck." It's an order.  A facade. A distraction so he won't see how fucking terrified I am.

He chuckles, sleep still thick in his mouth.  He pulls me down to rest on his chest and massages the tight bundles of tendons and skin and muscle and knot.  

I don't want to be touched because it integrates my body with the dream.

I need to be touched because I need confirmation that Basher is real and the dream wasn't. The fear isn't real, and Basher is.  He kisses my forehead, and the tenderness in the action threatens to destroy me. I might be suffocating under the weight of the chemicals and neurotransmitters and responses coursing through me.  

It takes the edge off, though. Being here, being caressed like a real lover calls the fear out into the light, and without the shadows, maybe the dream was not so scary after all.  Maybe?

The dream was wrong.  I wasn't afraid. It wasn't real.  But this is real. Basher is real.

The fear melts away as do it's effects on my body and soon I can fully feel Basher's calloused fingers working at a knot in my neck, gentle and probing and unskilled and sleepy.  I can feel his too-short nails scraping against my skin.

I don't cuddle often, but for the moment I'm clinging to Basher.  Clinging to the reality of him, which is the soft burbling sounds his insides make, the sound of his heart beating, the sound of his breath.  I slide my hand beneath his t-shirt, the warmth of his skin easing any anxiety I have that I'm weak, that I'm a victim.

Through his doze, he kisses my forehead again.  Poor stupid Basher thinks I have a headache.

"Sorry, kitten, s'all I got," he mumbles as his hand stops massaging.  It remains on my neck, though. My nerves stand on end. I don't want to be touched.  

I squeeze him to me, tight, nuzzling my cheek against his chest.  He's already asleep again.  I cover his hand on my neck with my hand, to ensure it stays there in his sleep.  I need to be touched.


	37. Rebirth

  _August 2015 | Basher’s POV_

“I’m not wearing the sunglasses,” I tell Jim as I look myself over in the mirror.

“And just why the hell not?” he hisses, careful not to wake Evelyn.

“Because the sun’s been down for three hours.”

“It’s Florida. The sun’s always up.” He shoves the sunglasses back on my face.

“I’m not wearing them,” I repeat.

He glares at me. “You want to be apart of the Side Project, you follow my rules.” Side Project is the term we’ve adopted for Jim’s--for our--criminal life. It makes it easier to talk about in front of Evelyn, and, quite honestly, it’s nice to think that our household has its own little culture and vernacular. Just like a real family.

“This isn’t part of the Side Project; we’re just meeting with Pete.”

“I need you to look intimidating.”

I scoff. “You’ve never actually met him have you? Because he’s not the sort of bloke you need to intimidate.”

Jim’s eyes blaze. “This is why I don’t like having ‘partners’.” His shoulders are tight and his jaw is clenched.

God, he gets bitchy any time I question or object to anything he does. “Oi, relax,” I snap back, catching him by the wrist as he huffs out of the loo. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he answers primly. He tugs at my grip on him.

“Jim.”

“Bash.”

He’s in a snit. Okay. I know what needs to happen. I cup his face, resting my forehead against his. “Hey, what’s the matter, kitten?” I ask softly.

His scowl deepens at first, but then the wrinkles on his forehead lessen and his jaw loosens. I feel his shoulders relax. “I need you to be my bodyguard, not my boyfriend.”

I can’t help but smile. “Just like old times?”

He nods. “Just do this. Because I’m the boss.”

“Say please.”

He glowers at the teasing. “I’d hate to cut your balls off in the same hotel room as our sleeping daughter, but I’m not opposed to it.” He pulls away again and this time I let him go. “Put on the fucking sunglasses.”

“No.”

We’re staying at some posh hotel near Disney World which offers hourly child-care at an exorbitant rate. At first I was surprised that Jim would let anyone watch our little lady, but then I discovered the cameras synced to his phone as well as his calculations of how long it would take for me to run from the Myth Bar to our room. (Hint: less than 30 seconds.)

After the sitter arrives and after Jim’s tested the cameras for the millionth time, we make our way to the bar. I can feel him practically buzzing beside me. There’s a light in his eyes that I haven’t seen in a while, and that coupled with the sun he’s gotten from a day at a mouse’s theme park makes him look almost healthy.

He refuses to hold my hand, and that’s fine. We take our seats in the corner where the blasphemous priest is already waiting.

“Mr. Moriarty,” he whispers, in mock awe. “What a pleasure to finally meet you in person!” He rises to shake Jim’s hand. Jim doesn’t accept.

“Oh of course,” Holy Pete says, “you don’t like to leave fingerprints anywhere, do you? Understandable. We don’t all have access to the Queen’s clean-up crew.”

“I don’t like to get my hands dirty.” Jim leans back in his seat. “You’ve met my bodyguard.”

“Oh yes, your, eh, oh what is the kids call it these days, your boytoy.”

I stiffen up but don’t react. As Jim put it, I’m here to protect, nothing else. Just like old times. I act if and when he tells me.

Jim doesn’t even smile. “He is rather precious, isn’t he?” He sounds bored, but he reaches to stroke the back of my head.

Internally, I’m livid. He can be flirty but I can’t?

“What do you want, Mr. Peter?”

“What do I want?” he asks as though it’s obvious. “I want to work for you.”

“The university’s not hiring.”

“I know you’ve been doing criminal things, Mr. Moriarty. I even know where you disposed of Dr. Munoz.” I start to lunge at him, but Jim waves me off with a small motion.

Jim is grinning his Consulting Criminal grin, the one that says _I’m mildly pleased to be here, but still mostly bored_. “Basher, be a dear and fetch me a gin and tonic. Charge it to the room. Would you like anything, Father?”

This little bitch is making me play waitstaff.

“Oh no, no, I’ll get my own. I don’t trust him not to poison my drink on the return.”

Smart man. I was considering doing that to Jim’s drink.

I go to the bar, the priest close behind me. “It’s going well, don’t you think?”

I look at him over the tops of my sunglasses (because I caved and wore sunglasses), but say nothing.

Jim tucks his phone back into his suit pocket when we return. He seems calm, so everything must be fine with Evelyn. I set his drink down in front of him and return to the seat beside him.

“I think I have a lot to offer, Jim. May I call you Jim?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Moriarty then?”

“ _Professor_ will do.”

I try to conceal my grin. My Professor of the Underground. My Jim. I feel all warm and tingly inside.

“Professor, then.” Pete downs his first shot of bourbon. “Professor, I have connections that may interest you.”

“Mycroft Holmes. His sister. Lady Smallwood. Lord Blackwell. . .” he proceeds to list off people who sound important, foreign, or a combination of the two.

Pete’s eyes widen to the size of his fists. He chuckles. “That’s very impressive.”

“It is. Your connections, however, are not.” He smiles tightly.

“Well, see, you forgot one.”

Jim tilts his head.

“But I’m not one to just give it all away on a first date. Not for free, at any rate.”

Jim sighs loudly. His lilt drips with disdain. “You want money.”

“Five million a year. When the empire is up and running, of course. I’m not unreasonable. I know you can’t afford that on a university salary.”

Jim sits up and locks his hands together atop the table in a very business-like manner. “Father Henry, I never pay anyone more than what it would cost to have them killed.” He nods his head in my direction. “Right now, I could have you killed for a blow job and a cigarette.”

JAMES MORIARTY. I bite my tongue.

Pete is starting to sweat. He pours himself another shot. “Rest assured, you want this contact.” He downs it.

“Who?”

“She’s dead. Just like you.”

Jim’s smile fades. He leans in, interested.

“If you have a connection to who you say you do, prove it.”

Pete clucks his tongue, shaking his head. “I couldn’t sell out my friend for anything less than 5 million a year.”

Jim licks his lips. “Prove to me that she’s alive, and I won’t sic my big bad tiger on you. Tonight.”

“I need more than an assurance on my life.”

“One million after the first year. Not a penny before.”

“Oh, come now, Professor. Must you be so cheap?”

“If you don’t like the terms of employment, take it up with HR.”  He tilts his head back in my direction.

“Three million. That’s the bounty on her head.”

Jim (literally) rolls this around in his head. “And what exactly do you think she can do to benefit me? Besides giving me the keys to Sherlock Holmes.”

Holy Pete grins. “Weapons dealers. CIA codes. Everything you used to have and more. No use rebuilding your network from scratch, right?”

“Who said I was interested in rebuilding?”

“Your good friend Dr. Roylott.”

I feel cold.   _He’s been in touch with Roylott?  Roylott’s been in a maximum security prison for black market organ dealings for the last six years._

Jim tenses beside me. “Roylott’s a lush.”

“Yes, well, so am I. We have great conversations when I’m dismantling the products.”

Rage washes over me, and for a moment or two, I can’t hear anything except ringing.  Christ, has Jim been in touch with organ dealers behind my back? My fists clench and the rage starts to bubble in my chest.

“You should never drink while disposing of evidence.”

_Like you didn’t when you killed Evelyn’s principal? You hypocritical lying sonuvabitch!_

The priest waves his comment away. “What’s done is done, Professor. We learn from our mistakes. Which, by the way, Gruner confessed to me that you’d also been in touch with him. Very interesting. I told him there was no way for you to get letters to Sherrinford, that it must be all in his head.”

Jim’s smile tightens. I am ready to kill both of them. I’m shaking with fury. Nonetheless, I keep quiet. Jim needs this. We can have our little domestic when the meeting is over.

But.  

He’s gone ‘round the fuckin’ bend if he thinks I’m still going on Splash Mountain with him tomorrow.

“We all have our ways, don’t we?” he says softly. “Three million. After six months. Give me proof that Rosamund Mary is still alive.”

“And what assurance do I have that you won’t kill me between now and then?”

“Like you said, Father, I don’t want to have to rebuild from absolutely nothing. Mind numbingly boring.”

OH MY GOD HE HAS BEEN MAKING ALL THESE CONTACTS?!  He’s been planning to restart his old work?! I slam my fist on the table, too livid to even look at Jim. SO MUCH FOR OUR OPENLY HONEST PARTNERSHIP!

Jim doesn’t even flinch. “He’s fiery,” he explains, sounding bored again. “Rest assured, unless someone finds out you’re working for me, Addison O’Neill, you’ll live for a minimum of another six months. Now. Proof.”

Holy Pete reaches into his pocket and retrieves a mobile phone, flipping it around so Jim can see it without touching it.

It’s a snap of a woman I recognize but can’t place.

Jim shakes his head. “This could be taken from any time. Ginger hair means nothing.”

“She’s still wearing her wedding ring.”

Jim shrugs.

“What other proof would you like, Professor?”

“Her head.”

“Well, her head wouldn’t really be proof that she’s still alive, now would it?”

Jim laughs. “Where is she?”

“What would your plans for her be?”

“A ransom. Her life for Holmes’. And my oh-so-handsome bodyguard will be more than happy to provide the killshot.” Out of the priest’s sight, beneath the table, Jim squeezes my upper thigh.

I shoot him a sideways glare.

“For more than a blowjob and a cigarette, I would hope.” Pete winks at me.

GREAT! I’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO BE ONE OF MORIARTY’S RENTBOYS! My eye starts to twitch.

“Oh no.” Jim’s hand slides closer to my groin. “Daddy’s saving something special for that.”

 _I will break that goddamn hand, you fucking tease_. I grab his wrist, trying to be inconspicuous.

Jim’s grin broadens. He slips out of my grasp, and, to my surprise, folds his fingers between mine, still out of sight.

You know what pisses me right the fuck off about that? The fact that it soothes the burn of my anger. I’m still upset that he’s kept me out of his contacts with other criminals, but not ready to murder him like I was two minutes ago. He starts tapping my knuckles. I block out their conversation, trying to make out Morse Code, but it’s just nonsense. Jim’s just tapping as Jim does.

I come back to the conversation. Pete is writing something on one of the cocktail napkins. He slides it over to Jim when he’s finished, and I instinctively catch it before it reaches Jim. Jim’s made no movement to retrieve it anyway. I briefly glance at it before I fold it in half and tuck it safely away in my blazer.

Jim releases my hand and checks his phone again. “That’ll be all, wouldn’t you say, tiger?”

I nod.

Jim gets to his feet. I follow suit. “We’ll be in touch, Father.”

As we leave, Pete says, “Oh, Professor, please be aware--should anything happen to me, I’ve told Ms Adler where I am.”

Jim spins on his heel. “Aw,” he cooes, “I’m flattered that you’re so frightened.”

Pete smiles back. “I don’t step into anyone’s employment lightly.”

I stay behind him until we’re in the elevator, maintaining the illusion that I’m guarding him and nothing else. Once we’re in the elevator, though, he rolls his eyes to focus on me, smiling mischievously. “Somebody’s angry,” he sings. “What is it, my dear?”

He’s practically glowing right now, his entire being relaxed and radiating Moriarty. I can feel myself scowling at him, trying my hardest not to contract his mirth. He’s cute when he’s criminal. Ugh.

“You’ve been working on other Side Projects without me.”

He creases his eyebrow. “No I haven’t.”

“Making contacts in the organ market? Getting messages to Roylott in prison?”

“Oh that. I told you about that.”

“No you bloody well didn’t.”

“Yes I did! I said, I’ve got to talk to a doctor.”

“When?!”

“In June!”

“I thought you were calling about Evelyn’s allergies.”

He stares at me like I’m an idiot. “Why would I need to talk to a doctor about her allergies, Basher? We’ve already got the prescription, and she’s hardly been affected this year.”

“Okay, what about Gruber?”

“It’s Gruner, and he’s a Baron, all right. And I didn’t tell you about him because frankly I forgot.”

“How do you just forget that?!”

He raises an eyebrow at my outburst. “It wasn’t important. Just asking him about interests.”

“So you’re off flirting with a Baron and a doctor while I’m selling overpriced vyvanse to college students and stock brokers?”

He throws his hands up in the air, exasperated. “You said you wanted to be apart of it!”

“Yeah, your life!  All of it! But you’ve got a million other things happening that I have no clue about.”

He gapes, flustered. “Well, yes. That’s just how my mind works.”

I sigh, leaning back against the elevator wall. The door opens and we exit, Jim staring at the floor, deep in thought. We don’t speak until after Jim’s paid the sitter.

“I just thought we were doing well, you know?”

“We are!” he says in a loud whisper, careful not to wake our daughter.

“No, we’re not. _You’re_ doing well because you’ve got other things happening. _You’re_ doing well because you’ve got a whole criminal life in the works.”

Jim looks legitimately confused. “Why does that upset you?”

“I guess I thought you were doing well because we were working together. And you’re doing well because you’re on your own again.” Ugh, that sounds so stupid and saccharine. “I guess it just stings my pride.” I slip my tie off and toss my blazer in the closet, then flop back on the bed.

The bed dips under Jim’s weight. He’s perfectly still beside, reasoning through what’s been said, what he should say, what he actually means, and the like. Finally, he offers, “It’s just always been me.”

“I know.”

“It’s not. . . purposeful.”

I nod my head and sigh again. “I know, kitten. Just. . . keep me up to date? Because it’s not just you anymore.” I reach up to pet his dyed temples.  Vain little shit.

“I’ll . . . try.”

“For the record, I expect a helluva lot more than a blowjob and a cigarette when this takes off.”

His jubilance reemerges. “Oh, Tiger, Daddy’ll buy you whatever you want.”

Anisa’s voice plays in my head. _Are you one of his rentboys?_

No, just kept, apparently.

“And I’m not precious,” I tell him.

He gives me a patronizing pout. “No, you’re a big tough manly man, aren’t you?” He snuggles down to my side. “Killing people and being fierce.”

“Damn right.”

He giggles beside me.

“You’re feeling pretty good, aren’t you?”

He nods. “Best I’ve felt since I saw Sherlock’s obituary headlining the Daily Mail.”

~~

_September 2015_

Jim tries, after our conversation in Florida, bless him. He tries to include me, tries to brainstorm with me, but the truth is, he’s just on a completely different unrelatable level.

He’s brought out a smart whiteboard, one that he likely stole from his office, and is drawing all sorts of equations for my benefit, but I don’t benefit from it because I’m not a chemist or a physicist or whatever these numbers relate to. He’s talking quickly and excitedly, and I’m starting to realize that he’s actually talking about two very different things and two very different criminal activities.

The information on the right has to do with altered vyvanse and the other has to do with the a security code for something--maybe a bank or a hospital. And my mad genius is bouncing back and forth between the two.

“. . . thequestionthenbecomeshowdoweintroducethe1-octen-3-olintoourproductwithoutalertingourcustomers? AndIthinkthismayactuallybeaseven.” His wrist flies over the board at the speed of light. Suddenly he spins around, pointing an accusing finger at me. “I hope you appreciate this because it’s really slowing down my process.”

I cover my mouth, flattered. Aw, my sweet boyfriend. He’s trying to include me. “Babe, I’m not even sure what you’re talking about.”

His face reddens and he slams his fist down on the dinner table, black eyes blazing with all the fury of hell. “You asked me to include you; the least you can do is understand!”

Seven years ago, that display of rage would terrify me. Now, though, it’s just endearing. “You’re cute when you’re angry.”

He purses his lips in indignance, caught off guard by the compliment. “Damn right I’m cute,” he snips back with a blush. Then he spins back around and continues scribbling and rambling on about vyvanse and breaking into what I’m discerning is a private laboratory. “Cartercouldpotentiallybeadecentallysowemaynothavetobreakinbut--”

“Jim, sweetheart, I still have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know what 1-octen-3-ol is.”

He roars out his frustration, kicking the whiteboard across the floor. “If you’re going to be my partner you’re going to have to be smarter! Stop grinning at me, idiot!”

“C’mere.”

“No!”

I grab his wrist and pull him into my lap. He grumbles about my stupidity as I wrap my arms around him and kiss his forehead. “My adorable mad scientist.”

He settles, pleased at the touch, though he’d never express it. He stays in my lap with an unbudging scowl.


	38. A Deep Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I had only felt the warmth within your touch  
> If I had only seen how you smile when you blush  
> Or how you curl your lip when you concentrate enough  
> Well I would have known  
> What I was living for all along  
> What I've been living for
> 
> Turning Page, Asleep At Last

_ Christmas Eve Eve 2015 | Basher’s POV _

The smell of gingerbread cookies and pine needles hangs heavy in the Nephin cabin we’ve rented again. Jim likes it here. It’s comfortable. Something about it feels like him. Despite the elegance and intelligence that makes up Moriarty, there’s something inherently isolated and quiet about him, just like this cabin.

Midnight finds Jim and me on the floor in front of the fireplace, working through a bottle of Greenspot. It’s not my favorite; it’s got a fruitiness to it that I generally try to avoid in my choice of booze, but I figured Jim would like it, and I wasn’t going to open the Knappogue until after midnight mass on Christmas Eve. (That’s my personal Christmas tradition.)

A few hours ago, Evelyn fell asleep in our bed, watching Christmas movies. We left her there, with the door to our bedroom cracked, because even though its been over six months since Eurus abducted our daughter, we’re still a bit hesitant about being back in Europe. Simultaneously, we both wanted to drink heavily since we’re on holiday, and Evelyn dead asleep after playing in the snow all day seemed like the opportune moment to do so.

Jim’s alcohol tolerance is way below your average Irishman’s. After his third shot, the giggly man is sprawled out on a quilt an arms length away from me, red-cheeked and glassy-eyed. He’s babbling on about the time he poisoned all of Evelyn’s blond classmates so she could play Goldilocks.

“That was stupid of them to cancel the play,” he says scathingly.

“They thought it was a terrorist attack, Jim.”

“That’s stupid. Why would terrorists attack only blonde four-year-olds?”

“Excuse me?” I cough accusingly. “You used to facilitate practice attacks on small populations like that all the fucking time. Remember that time you sent me to that hospice facility out in Leeds to test out some frog’s chemical?”

He smiles fondly. “You were so mad. You felt that was beneath you.”

“It was beneath me. You just liked pissing me off.”

“I was trying to break you in. You were much too prideful and curious to be my Chief of Staff.” He downs the remainder of whiskey from his glass, wincing at the burn. “You know who I should poison?”

Of course I do. I want her poisoned too. “That Jenny girl in Evey’s year.”

“Yes!” he snarls, sliding his empty teacup back at me. “One more.”

I chuckle at the glassy look he’s giving me. “I don’t know, kitten, you look pretty gone.”

“Ha! Like I’m going to let the resident alcoholic dictate how much I drink.”

I pour a half shot, because he’s too pink and adorable for me to deny him anything right now. “We might be able to transfer her to a different school, you know.” I scoot closer to him, handing him his cup.

“I’ve considered it, but there’s two reasons why that’s a bad idea. One, I murdered her principal and it would look suspicious if I transferred her. Two, she has friends at this school. Disrupting that unnecessarily could be damaging. And she’s an only child, so socialization outside the home is even more important.” He pulls at his whiskey then makes a face. “Hey, hey, get some honey.”

I shake my head. “You’re not putting honey in this. It’s not tea.”

“Get it.”

“Get up and get it yourself, Prof.”

He points accusingly at me. “You’re taunting me.”

“I absolutely am not.”

“Mhm. You are. Because you think that I’ve had too much to drink, and I can’t get it on my own.”

“Jim, don’t analyze me when I’m buzzed. Trust me, there’s not a whole lot happening upstairs right now.”

“There’s not a lot happening upstairs anyway.”

“You could always get another one.”

“I will if you’re offering.” He throws back the whiskey in the teacup and shoves it across the hardwood floor toward me again.

“I meant a kid. You could always get another kid.” I pour him another shot anyway. “If you add sugar, you’re gonna be hung over tomorrow.”

“That’s a myth. And I don’t wanna ‘nother kid.”

“You just want her to fit in?”

“I don’t want anyone to bully her,” he says pointedly. “And Jenny’s not really a bully, just a nuisance. A know-it-all. Bitch.”

“You know, I’ve been thinking about my sister a lot lately. I’d like Evey to meet her.”

Jim shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“She hates you; she’s religious; she’s homophobic; she lives in Romania. The list is endless. And if she’s going to meet anyone’s siblings, she’s going to meet mine first.”

“You have siblings?”

“I have a brother.”

“What? Really?”

“Yup.”

I slide his shot back over to him. “Is he real or is he a person you created for criminal purposes?”

“He’s real. Really real. He’s a stationmaster in Cork. So boorring.”

“What’s his name?”

A bizarre grin splits Jim’s face. “Oh. . . Basher. His name is James.” He lays flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.

I laugh. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not. His name is James.”

“Your parents named you both James?”

He covers his face, battling the contagion of my laughter. “My name’s not really James.”

“It’s not?”

“Nooo.”

I pull his hands away from his face, scooching closer. “What’s your name then?”

“Ugh, my parents were absolute pricks.”

Oh my God, is he toying with me because I’m drunk? “Your name _is_ James, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“James Moriarty and James Moriarty, sons of Jamie and James Moriarty.”

He kicks at me but misses. “It’s Jameson.”

I don’t know why but that gets my attention. Well, I do know why. I perk right the fuck up, hovering over him to study his drunken expression. “Jameson?”

“Yessss,” he hisses, clearly irritated but giggly. “Jesus Christ, I hate those people.”

“Like Jameson whiskey?”

“My dad worked at the distillery before the one in Dublin shut down.”

OH FUCK. I crawl closer to him, feeling warm all over. “Jameson’s my favorite whiskey.”

He groans, covering his face again. “For God’s sake, Basher, _that’s_ what does it for you?”

I pull his hands away again, laying down on my side to face him, my torso pressed against his flank. “I don’t know what it does for me, but it definitely does something.”

“Pervert.”

“I almost picked up a bottle of Black Barrel, but I thought, ‘nah, I won’t get anything too Irish. Might piss Jim off.’” Feeling braver (and hornier), I slide my hand up his jumper, ghosting my fingertips up the line of coarse hair below his navel. The material slides up and I can see the faint blush on the skin of his stomach.

His glassy eyes are fixed on me. The heated gaze he gave me at the firing range all those years ago suddenly pops into my head. The look he’s giving me now versus the look he gave me then is drastically different, but both make me feel desired. It’s a nice feeling, being wanted. Something primitive and basic about someone finding the exterior of your being attractive.

“You let me call you James in bed,” I recall. “That’s not your name. Why didn’t you correct me?”

“What and tell you my alcoholic mother and father named their first born after their drinking problem?”

“Oh, Jim,” I groan, tracing the line of stomach to his sternum, exposing that pale skin. “ _Jameson_.”

He’s trying so hard to cling to sobriety. “Oh no. No, no, no. We’re not playing this game.” He shoves me back and starts to sit up.

But I’m just. . . just too aroused to let him push me away. I shove his chest downward, straddling those slim hips, too buzzed to worry that my weight might be too much for him. “Oh, we are, pretty kitten. _My Jameson_.”

His face is flushed from the roots of his hair to the skin that disappears beneath his clothing. He pushes me away half-heartedly. I take the offending hand and kiss his palm, acutely aware of his eyes fixated on what I’m doing to him. I trace the outline of his hand, pressing kisses to the tips of his fingers.

His breathing has quickened. With very little effort, I sit up and pull him into my lap. “Are you sure you want to play this game, Tiger?” He somehow manages to be mockingly while panting and writhing in my lap.

I nip at his sweater-covered shoulder and he shudders. Jesus. Jameson. “You know what I want?”

He shakes his head, quiet, high-pitched gasps emanating from his throat as I slip my hands beneath his sweater again, massaging the muscles and tendons of his back.

I grin against his jaw. “I wanna fuck you in front of our Christmas tree.”

He’s off of me in the blink of an eye, kicking drunkenly at my face. “Damn you, you contemptible asshole!”

I chuckle, reaching for him. I feel incredibly predatory. Oh my God, I’m going to win tonight. I’ve not seduced him; there’s been no fighting; it’s just the two of us, drunk and happy and horny in front of the Christmas tree that we decorated as a family. That resilient frame and that easily bruised skin is going to writhe in pleasure beneath me, because I know his name, because I know more about him than I did yesterday, because he’s opened up to me. Moriarty is mine.

It’s probably the alcohol talking.

But I don’t care.

“Come to your Tiger, kitten. I’m not done playing with you,” I say, keeping my voice low and deep.

“Well, I don’t wanna play with you.” He stumbles backwards, dizzy from the drink.

I sweep him off his feet, carrying him princess style to the over-sized, over-stuffed leather futon that sits right in front of our Christmas tree. He simultaneously clings to my shoulders and struggles to get down. “Not in front of the fucking tree! Goddamn it!” he shouts as I lay him down. He tries to get up but I’m on top of him before he can get too far.

“Mm, yes, in front of the Fucking Tree.” I raise my eyebrows suggestively at him again, and he groans, trying not grin. “I’m pretty sure that’s an ancient Celtic holiday tradition, right?”

“You’re so stupid.” He covers his mouth so I won’t see him chuckling.

I caress his cheek, looking deeply into his eyes. “You’re beautiful, Jameson.”

“Is this some heterosexual seduction technique? Being a charming asshole while drunk?” His voice isn’t quite as even as he’d like it to be.

I nuzzle my face into his neck, feeling warm all over. More than anything, I want to feel his skin against mine, feel his breath as he pants. I want . . . I want to be with him the way I’ve been with women, and that realization should terrify me, but I’m too subdued. I just want. No fear, no second-guessing, just a longing for intimacy with this crazy person I’ve exposed all of my vulnerabilities to.

I kiss him, and initially he’s resistant, but I can’t care. I’m incapable of stopping showering him with affection at this point. I slide my arms between his back and the sofa, pulling him to me as tightly as possible. “Oh Jameson,” I breathe like I’m trapped in a bad 80s romance novel, “I love you so much.”

On his face is hesitance, quite possibly fear. We haven’t exchanged “I love yous” since June. We’ve had frottage-y sex, he’s sucked me off a few times, but our sex life hasn’t been as active as one would think. Jim’s still coming out of his depressive episode, I’m straight, our daughter is absolutely batshit insane, we’re rebuilding a criminal network from scratch--things just haven’t lined up.

I can’t give Jim what he wants. I can’t give him the cuts, the bruises, the suffocation. It’s not in me (well, not in the bedroom context). I don’t know that he can give me what I want--which is an active, loving participant.  He'll certainly never be female.

Even so, I want him so much right now.

I tap my lips against his, playful, eager to keep the mood light. “Jameson?”

“Don’t call me that,” he grumbles back. His hands come to rest on the small of my back, and it makes me shudder. He’s not pushing me away--there’s no rejection in his touch, and that's all I need to quell any doubts that Jim wants this.

I kiss him harder, squeezing his body to mine, relishing the heat of him, the intimacy of being so close, of feeling his heartbeat against me. “Kitten?”

Something inside him settles. I feel the tension lessen in his spine and limbs. “Yeah?” His voice is soft and small.

“I don’t know how to ask this without killing the mood,” I grin against his mouth, “but can I fuck you?”

He snorts. His fists ball up the ends of my shirt. “Well, we are in front of the Fucking Tree.”

~~

_ Jim’s POV _

_ "All my life I've been searching for distractions." _

Pain is a delicious distraction. Keeps you in the moment. The future doesn't exist when the body is just trying to survive. What's an hour when you may not last a minute?

I don't fear pain, and I don't avoid pain, and that's been my strength my entire life. My wildcard. It scares ordinary people, my lacking a self-preservation instinct. Makes them feel like they're dealing with a real psycho.

The first time--my first time--Carl Powers had slammed me up against the wall of the showers. An older boy, stronger. He’d tried to frighten me, but he failed. I wasn’t afraid of him or whatever the hell he was going to do.

He’d torn through me, ripped me to pieces, and I laughed at him, the way he’d laughed at me numerous times before. This was the apex of his bullying?  _ This _ was his magnum opus? Assaulting me in the shower? How could I not laugh? How pedestrian could he be?

And terror washed over his face when I laughed, and it was fantastic. My masochism, I realized, was an untapped resource.

“Give us a kiss, Carl,” I’d said. He ran. Two hours later, he was in shock, rescue workers trying to resuscitate him.

And, really, there’s beauty in pain. So many little details, nuances, the way the brain lights up, telling your body to avoid  _ that _ sensation. Or to go to it. And even the way the skin can interpret something as simple as a scratch in a myriad of sensations is a thing of beauty. It can burn, it can sting, it can ache, etc. Definable, concrete terms apply to a scratch that inherently describe a sensation. There’s beauty in quantification and measurement.

There’s beauty in the familiar, too. In knowing what to expect. I know what to expect when my windpipe is closed off.  _ Tears. Pressure. The shouting and quickening of my heart. _ I know what to expect when hot metal is pressed against my skin.  _ Burn. Sizzle. Putrid smell of burning flesh. The lingering, agonizing sting. Sometimes there's even flashes of cold. _ I know what to expect during sex.  _ Being ripped apart. Bitten. Choked. Stretched. _

Except none of that happens with Basher.

There's something earth-shattering and restorative in the way his chapped lips touch mine, and not in a good, pleasantly distracting way. Every yielding kiss, every tender touch,  _ every time I seek out his skin against mine _ , I feel like I'm breaking into a thousand pieces.  It's not a _distraction_ at all.  It ties my body to my brain and becomes inescapable.  

Pain is processable. Tenderness is lethal.

Every goddamned time Sebastian Moran puts his arm around me, I devolve. I become less and less, and I'm terrified, and I want more so damned bad. Like an addict. I'm a fucking addict, losing myself to some broken portion of my brain that craves this assassin's gentleness.

_ "No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will." _

Somehow, this idiot has. He's gotten close. He sees my vulnerability and does nothing to exploit it. He could have the world, and he settles for drunken kisses in front of our tacky Christmas tree, and he shouldn't be alive. I should kill him.

He knows my name. My real name. He knows more about me than he did yesterday, and it excites him. It's not what I do for him that excites him; it's what I am to him, that I've let him the tiniest bit closer--that's what excites him.

How can I trust a man who can't be bribed? How can I predict the actions and behaviors and thoughts of a man who doesn't require anything of me? Who just stays because I asked?

Basher terrifies me.

His affection terrifies me.

My desire for him scares the hell out of me.

He got to me.

In my drunkenness, he got my name, and that shouldn't be a big deal, because this isn't the fucking Dark Ages, there's no power in a name, but it is, because . . .

Because it's more than most people have.

Jim is aloof and unaffected. Jameson has always been vulnerable.

It's as "Moriarty, Jameson" that Mycroft Holmes tortured me. It's as Jameson Carl taunted me.

And it's as Jameson Sebastian Moran is going to. . .what? Fuck me?

And . . .

I AM FUCKING SCARED.

I want to retreat. I want to surrender.

And this idiot is off-key humming "It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas" while he undoes his trousers!

"You all right, kitten?" he asks. "You're pale."

"I'm Irish."

He slides his nude from against my clothed one, his hands kneading the scratchy fabric of my jumper. His erect cock brushes against my jeans, and I whimper. How am I the exposed one when he's naked as a newborn?

Basher is grinning this boyish grin, pleased and needy all at once. "Nooo," he says, pressing a small kiss to the corner of my mouth. "You look distraught."

"I'm distraught because you're so boring in the bedroom."

The insult doesn't faze him. "Thank God we're in the living room, then, eh?" He chuckles to himself and kisses me playfully, oblivious to the existential crisis into which he's tossed me.

By all means, he’s a proper predator. Homicidal, strong, moderately intelligent compared to most. By all means, sex with Basher should be rough and painful and beautiful; not gentle and giggly and laced with Bing Crosby songs.

He's got those amazing broad shoulders and thick, firm arms. I love the veins that stand out on his arms, as though his muscles have just shoved them to surface because there’s literally no more room in his skin. Like his flesh can barely contain his strength.

I love the hair on his chest, how it feels when I run my fingers through it, how deliciously masculine it makes him look.

His naked body is pressing me into the futon, his tongue stroking mine while he slides my jumper up to my neck and unbuttons my trousers. He’s making soft, pleased sounds, like a large cat humming and chuffing, nuzzling along my belly, then my neck.

And I’m drunk, and it’s too much. I know what comes next but the sensations are strange and unknown and I just want him to _bite me, cut me, hurt me_.

“No,” I tell him, removing my hands from his warm, firm, perfect shoulders. “Knock it off, Tiger.”

And he fucking  _ whines _ . He whines like he couldn’t take me against my will. Like my “no” is actually capable of stopping him. His affection and sentimentality are his weakness, and  _ god-fucking-damn it, they're mine too _ .

He buries his face in my neck as I move to sit up, to get away from his soft licks and sloppy kisses. “Please, kitten? Please?” I feel him grin against my skin. “It’s Christmas, Jameson.” He starts to chuckle, the heat of his breath making me shiver. “What’s that song?”

“Oh fuck, don’t start.”

“ _I d_ __on’t_ want a lot for Christmas, I won't even wish for snow, something, something about mistletoe. _ ”

“Oh my God,” I groan, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a smile.

He nuzzles the other side of my neck, giggling. “How’s it go, then? Come on, pretty kitten, sing for me.” He shifts his weight innocently enough, pushing me back down against the sofa.

“Absolutely not.” The weight and heat of his nude form is too much. The physical indications of my interest aren’t concealable.

“Then play with me,” he pleads. A knowing grin is splayed across his face. His voice deepens. His lips tap mine. “I’ve been.” Kiss. “So good.” Kiss. “This year.”

Arousal tenses my spine. I whimper against his mouth like a little bitch. Before I can stop myself, my fingernails are digging into the muscled expanse of his bare back. “Liar.” My voice quavers.

“Mm, you’re right,” he rumbles. He slides my jumper up again, exposing my stomach and chest so he can kiss upwards. “I’ve been an absolute menace.” The stubble on his chin leaves a mild burn in its wake.

I don’t realize it at first, but Basher’s chaste kisses are following the twinkling lights on the tree. How absurd.

_ WHY THE FUCK AM I GETTING HARDER? _

“But,” he starts, tugging my jumper over my head, “I think I’ve got just the thing to make up for it.” He laughs again and starts in on my trousers.

That interests me enough that I don’t shove him away when his hand finds my cock. “Oh?” I try to sound bored, like I’m not terrified at the prospect of having icky sentimental melty sex with this beast of a man. “Did you get Daddy a prezzie?”

He pulls back, grinning drunkenly while he studies my face. “No. I got myself a prezzie. But you’ll benefit from it.  _ Kitten. _ ”

“Go and get it, Tiger. Before I get bored and send you to bed.” Before the terror overtakes me and I murder you and bury your body under the floorboards.

“Tsk, tsk, so bossy, even on the holidays.” His mouth is on mine again, drunk and sloppy and just . . . precious. I  _ want _ . How something can be soft and rough at once is astounding, but the Colonel is a giant ball of contradictions. He truly is like a giant, well-fed tiger. Territorial, curious, playful, murderous.

Suddenly, he's gone and I'm cold.

God, I just want him so much. I’ve never wanted anyone or anything like this before. Lust has never gotten into my skin so deep that something else couldn’t distract me.

That frightens me.

And what frightens me even more is that I’m willing to let him play his soft little games with me, willing to let him be soft with me.

It’s not fair.

I don’t like shaking like this. I don’t like the flippy-flopping my stomach is doing. I don’t like how dry my mouth is, how desperate I am to be touched, how willing I am to accept caresses instead of bruises.

He returns and I’m so grateful. In fact, I hear myself fucking whine like a little bitch. “Bash.”

He slides back down on top of me, all smiley and chipper, humming “All I want for Christmas is You” completely off-key. Mariah would be mortified.

“Baby, your heart is beating so fast,” he notes, resting his palm over my chest, pressing harder than he realizes. I can hear it. I can hear the treacherous organ beating too loud and too quick, betraying the anxiety. The heat of his palm, the strength in his arms, the sickening familiarity with which he touches me. . .

And my idiot sniper just grins. “Are you excited, kitten?”

I have no clue. No idea. There are neurons firing in my brain in a way that’s new, there’s no drama that preceded this encounter, we’re just . . . he’s just . . .

Nothing seems real and everything seems too real and I don’t know--

I feel like a computer that’s frozen. I’m trying to function, trying to register external stimuli, and yet . . .

_ You’re strong and murderous and masculine and you’re so sweet and soft and knowing my REAL name does this to you and I’m frozen and at your mercy, but not in that erotic power-dynamic way; in that terrifying, co-dependent kind of way and . . . _

_ I’m unnerved because I’m unraveling, you bastard. _

I’m losing.

And his attack begins. He holds up a tube of lubricant, and for a moment everything seems familiar. Rough, tearing penetration, bites, bruises, suffocation--

“OH MY GOD.” I hiss.

He cackles. “Yes!”

“For the love of God, Basher--”

“It’s peppermint flavor!”

“No!”

“Like a candy cane!” His grin is as infectious as his enthusiasm.

“No.”

“Yesss,” he hisses back. He slides my pants off, even as I try to buck him off. “Settle down, little kitten. Fuck, I love Christmas. Come on, Jameson, settle.” He pins me down, lips centimeters from mine. “Let me have this,  _ my _ Jim.” His teeth graze my bottom lip. I can feel the lingering burn of whiskey in his mouth. “Let me get you all nice and slick and tasty and I’ll lick you nice and clean like a candy cane. Please?” He flashes this devious grin. "Please, Daddy?"

I try to swallow but my throat is like sandpaper. “Are you begging me, Tiger?”

He grinds that thick, hard cock against my thigh. "Oh I am, kitten. I'm begging you."

Even though he's on top. Even though he's stronger. Even though I'm trembling like a leaf.

And I'm just barely able to breathe his name. I can't agree or disagree or anything else, just exhale his name.

I don't like this distraction.

I nod my head, giving him the okay. He kisses me again, deeper, more subdued, his hand cupping my cheek. Despite my best efforts, my body relaxes into the sofa. He kisses his way down the length of my body. I can sense the hesitation when he gets to my erection.

_ Fine. Stop. I don't need this. _

_ Please don't stop, Tiger. Please don't. _

The cool lubricant against the heated tip of my cock makes me draw in breath in surprise. Bash glides down, slow and purposely coating the length of me. "I've already tasted it," he admits. He rubs his eyes.  _ My poor sleepy Tiger. _ "It doesn't taste like peppermint." He laughs to himself. "But I'm sure it tastes better than cock, right?"

I'm pleasantly surprised at the vague sting the lubricant leaves in its wake. It fizzles out when Basher applies more but then returns with a vengeance a moment later. This may actually be bearable. Maybe?

He coats my balls as well, thumbing over them with a clinical interest. I start to close my legs and say something indignant, but his hands spread my thighs, so that I'm completely open to him, totally at his mercy. My cock twitches in interest. The stinging peppermint awakens the nerves in my cock to a previously unknown draft. I feel like I've shoved my dick into a york peppermint pattie.

And then his thick, warm tongue probes the base of my cock and with quick, feather-like licks, Basher makes his way upwards. He reaches the tip and gives me a cheeky look before sucking it into his mouth. The lubricant that lingers on his tongue swirls into the slit and the sting is all the more intense against the sensitive internal tissue. He pops off and makes a face. "Gross."

I start to kick him away. "Moran, I will--"

He holds me down, keeps me in place and repeats the action. "Be a good kitten, Jameson. Be good for your Tiger," he purrs, before lapping at my cock a third time. He presses my thighs into the couch so that I can't close them. This time, he stops at my frenulum and sucks, his teeth ever so gently scraping over it. In vain, I buck against his grip. He laughs against the flesh in his mouth. It's not devious, though. It's not even teasing. Just the sound of a contented man laughing at his (mis)fortune.

"I've not got your talent for deepthroating," he says, "but this isn't too bad, is it, boss?" He winks at me.

He keeps this up for a few minutes, licking my erection like it's a lolly, sucking on small expanses of skin when the mood takes him, blending the stinging lubricant with precum using his tongue.

I focus on the sting, letting it ground me against the backdrop of un-quantifiable soft licks and kisses. Or I try too. Every hum he makes, every obscene sound he emits brings me back to the "pleasurable" sensations, and the fear resurfaces. Why can't my Tiger just. . . hurt me?

I've spent years being mauled by the Woman, by Magnussen, by strangers in clubs and in alleys, by clients who had never seen my face--and now I have a Tiger who refuses to do so.

What if I can't come like this?

Then that's his fucking fault. I've told him what I need.

I want to come for him. I want to keep him around. I want him to want me. I want him to love me and need me the way I need him. He keeps me right. I can't stop  _ thinking _ . My brain is buzzing. The anxiety is increasing.

_ KILLSHERLOCK. _

_ NOT RIGHT FUCKING NOW. _

The stinging inside the slit, the stinging as it spreads. . . focus on that. Focus on his tight grip on your thighs. Maybe it'll bruise.

Basher reapplies the lubricant, his calluses and scars nearly undetectable beneath the layer of gel. A new wave of mild burning washes over my penis, and I'm grateful for the distraction.

I need distraction. A new one. A better one.

I bite the meatier part of my palm, centering myself, focusing on the familiar, definable sensation of teeth buried in skin.

Basher continues to work me over with his mouth, and I just let myself exist. My body seeks out more of his mouth, and he keeps me pinned down. The ache in my hand settles my brain. I can stay in the moment. God, yes, this is . . .

Suddenly, my hands are pinned over my head and an angry Basher is glaring over me. It excites me. "Good kittens," he growls through gritted teeth, "don't bite, Jim."

I writhe beneath him. "But I  _ need _ it, Tiger."

"No, you little slut, you need to be good for me so I can make sure you have a proper orgasm." The anger melts from his face and he looks guilty. "I wanna be good to you, Daddy." He rests his forehead against mine. "And I can't do that if you're misbehaving."

My mouth is dry. "You're manipulating me."

"It's working though, isn't it?  _ Daddy _ ." Sarcasm drips from the epithet. He leans down to kiss me, the tingle of peppermint smearing across my lips and the insides of my cheeks. "Are you going to be good for your Tiger?"

_ My tiger. Maul me, Tiger. _ I nod.

"That's my good kitten." He guides my hand between us to his hard, hot erection and  _ fuck _ , I want that. Such a perfect cock, thick and long. I want it in my mouth, in my hand, in my arse. "See? I love it so much when you're good. Do you feel how hard it makes me? How  _ wet _ you make me?"

I think I'm whimpering. I don't know. I can't hear over his groans as he ruts into my hand, head tossed back like a cat getting his chin scratched, complete with the stupid grin.

I hate how this makes me feel. Sex shouldn’t be messy like this--before Basher, it never was. I felt, I hurt, I screamed, I came, I dealt with the wounds. The end. None of this “my chest feels like something is melting inside of it, I better rip it open and let it out” shit.

He grinds against me and whimpers, and it’s too much. I wish he’d fucking hit me, choke me,  _ anything _ , because pain is understandable and manageable. This is--God only knows what this is. It’s overwhelming and I hate it.

The realization hits me that there’s vulnerability in pleasure that doesn’t exist in pain, and it shakes me to my fucking core.

I think.

He retrieves some other unflavored lube before he positions my legs over his shoulders so that he can open me up. I’ve spread my legs for dozens of men (and women and everything in between), but I’ve never felt as exposed as I do now. Instinct is telling me to close my legs, to tell the big bad Tiger to stop because once he’s inside me something is going to change. Something in our relationship is changing now, and I’m not ready. I can’t stop it.

“Choke me.” And it sounds so pitiful and I hate it.

He doesn’t even say no; he just ignores me, starts licking broad stripes across my nipples, massages the insides of my thighs, groaning in pleasure, like he enjoys  _ giving _ .

I’m disappointed at the slowness, the deliberate gentleness in which he prepares me, massaging the hole, ensuring it’s positively slathered in unflavored lubricant, easing in a single digit with the same speed that someone removes a Jenga block.

When I order him to hurry, he just kisses me. I think that’s the only thing the sniper knows how to do. Kiss and rut. His sex life prior to me must’ve been devastatingly boring.

Even so. . .

_ Damn him. _

Even so, it’s pleasurable. No burning at the stretch. No tearing of internal tissue. I won’t have to do infection prevention because there’s no bleeding.

_ My Tiger is so soft. And I don’t know what to do with that. _

Barring Evelyn, before Basher, no one had ever been  _ soft _ with me. Hooper tried to be soft with Jim from IT. Riley tried to soft with Rich. Throughout my life, there’s been a handful of conquests and pawns who have tried to be soft with my various identities--and I’ve despised every one of them. Killed quite a few of them in fact.

His slim finger finds that sensitive spot inside of me. It’s nothing new, really. He’s not the first one to touch me there. And yet, it feels so completely different.

_ This is too much. Basher, stop. _

“Jameson.” He breathes my name again, and something shatters, and I’m gripping his neck, even as he massages lubricant deeper into me.

“Stop. Calling. Me. That.”

He shushes me, pulling my fists from his neck, still gentle, as though I wasn’t just trying to choke him. “Talk to me, kitten,” he purrs. “Is this good?”

“Would you please just fuck me already?”  _ Because this slow and gentle is unnerving and I’m scared of being on the receiving end of it. _

With a contented grin on his face, he rubs my prostate, teasing along the edges with that one single finger. “I love you. I love you so much. I wanna make you feel good, kitten.” And his mouth is back on mine, his stubble burning my cheeks.

His free hand slides between us to stroke the head of my cock, and a whimper escapes my throat and my hips rut upwards, like I want more.

Goddamn him.

I turn my head, and he kisses along my jaw to my ear, and there’s just a continuous wave of goosebumps erupting across my skin and I start to feel tremory. “I can take you now.” My voice sounds so foreign. I need pain, discomfort, anything, because this giggly, drunken, tender sort of intimacy is unbearable.

He withdraws, leaving me empty and exposed and wet, completely at his mercy. My breath catches. He’s going to fuck me.

And it’ll be a stretch, a nice long definable burn that will make this bearable.

Instead, he lubes up two fingers and slides back in. His other hand is sliding along the underside of my erection, just ghosting along.

“Basher,” I growl at him, “stop teasing me.”

His eyes meet mine, and the sincerity on his face is ridiculous and sweet and I’ll need to kill him because it hurts too damn much. He brings his fingers to his lips, sucking off the precum--my precum--like he legitimately enjoys it, and says, “I’m not teasing, kitten.” Damn that boyish grin.

Damn his sincerity. What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? How am I to process something I can’t fucking grasp? Something that’s not real? Does he know what he’s doing to me? Is this some elaborate torture to break me emotionally and mentally?

Oblivious to my internal crisis, he nuzzles into my neck again, murmuring, “Is this good, kitten? Does it feel good? I wanna make you feel good, Jameson.”

“Basher, please, please, please--”

He pulls back and kisses me again. “Don’t beg, boss. Let me take care of you?” He thrusts his fingers in a little deeper, making me shudder. “Can I, boss? Is this good? Tell me, boss. Is this good?”

Is it?

Unskilled fingers tease the prostate gland inside of me, unsure of the line between “good, safe depth” and “I hope I don’t puncture your colon.” His touches remain shallow and slow, and it’s the worst sort of torture, because it’s not  _ enough _ . Not enough to hurt, not enough to come--it’s like a tickle.

“My kitten,” he purrs to himself. “I’ve done a lot of reading about this. One article said the prostate was five to six inches deep.” He presses on the gland, emphasizing the falsehood and making my back arch. “Clearly, that’s not true.” Basher leans down, sucking the tip of my cock between his lips as he grazes over the bundle of nerves in a soft but quick succession. “I’ve also read that the prostate swells during arousal. I think that’s probably true.” He keeps his fingers moving in quick, gentle thrusts.

Strange warmth, thick like honey, begins to crawl up my thighs, engulfing the lower half of my body. I’m reminded of the ocean receding just before a big wave. His teeth barely scrape over my frenulum again. I gasp. Something in my gut tightens.

“I’m sorry I got snappy about the biting.” Basher keeps his voice low and deep between mouthing at my cock. “I get, oh what’s the word, territorial? Protective? I don’t like anyone hurting my boss. Not even you.”

I reach out to touch his shoulder, zeroing in on the warmth and the way the muscle there moves as he does. He lets out a needy moan, sucking just a little harder than before. He returns to hovering over me, kissing not-quite-peppermint flavor onto my tongue, and he rests his forehead on mine when he’s finished. The internal massaging never ceases. “I like it when you touch me, Daddy,” he grins.

My arousal is building. My body feels heavy and slow with pleasure.

My hands slide down his arms, reveling in their strength and heat. My Tiger could crush me. My face is hot, and my limbs feel like jelly. It’s so boring and cliche and I hope he doesn’t stop.

_ For the love of your god, please stop. _

He half-smiles, his tongue coming out to trace my lips. “Ready to go for three?”

Something erupts inside me. “OF COURSE! YOU IDIOT! I’ve taken toys  _ twice _ your girth! I’ve taken two cocks at once! You’re not special, Basher!”

To my surprise, he chuckles softly. Basher’s harder to rile when he’s drunk. “Is that supposed to impress me or disturb me?”

“I’m not fragile.”

“I am.” A third finger slips in slowly, spreading my hole a little wider, and this time there is a nice burn. “I’m a fragile man, Jameson. Looking for love in all the wrong places. All that jazz. You have to be gentle with me,  _ Daddy _ , or I might just shatter.” He ends with a groan and I realize that I’ve involuntarily squeezed his shoulders.

I can’t catch my breath.

“Basher, I need  _ more _ than fingers.”

“You’ll get it, kitten. Promise.” He sucks my nipple into his mouth, lightly working it between his teeth. A pang of arousal shoots through me again.

He works until my nipple is sore and I’m squirming, and then he repeats the process on the other one. My back is arching and my thighs are tensing and I’m cautiously hopeful that I’ll be able to come from this. I feel so warm and safe. . .

And then he stops. Withdraws altogether. I’m cold and empty and wet and furious. His hand covers my mouth before I can shout at him.

I see red. I’ll skin this bastard and wear his skin to mass. I bite the palm covering my mouth, hard enough to feel the skin give.

KILL MORAN.

“No, no, little kitten,” he cooes. “What did I tell you about biting?” He leans down to kiss me, and I’m all teeth, attacking his mouth. I don’t know what my end goal is but I’m going to disfigure this man. Nails slice into skin as I tear into him.

“Fuck me, Basher,” I order, “or I will nail your intestines to the fireplace and leave you there!” And I mean it. It’s not just talk. I’ll torture him. No one makes a fool of Moriarty, not even my big bad tiger.

“Jameson, you’re so angry,” he teases. “Was my kitten close? Were you going to come? Tell me, kitten, or I’ll leave  _ you _ like this.” He squeezes my erection, making the ache of disappointment all the worse.

“Do it. They’ll never find your body,” I snarl.

In one fell swoop, Bash has my legs wrapped around his waist, and oh, it feels so good. So right. Safe and secure and about to get fucked.

He palms my dick, spreading precum and saliva and the remaining lubricant around the crown and down to the base. At the same time, he’s pushing the head of his cock inside of me, stretching me more than his fingers prepared me, and it’s heavenly. My fists tighten against his back and shoulders and my legs pull him closer to me.

“Yes, Tiger, yes, that’s what I needed, you fucking tease.”

He stops moving once the head is snug inside. “Be nice, Jim. Santa’s watching you.”

“Basher, please. Please. Please move. Go deeper.”

He eases his way deeper inside of me, his hard abs gliding across my own less-than-toned gut, a cocky smile on his face. He’s slow and deliberate, taking his time as he seeks out that pleasure spot.

God, it feels so good. Perhaps not physically, but mentally. I feel settled, calmer. It washes over me.

My heterosexual boyfriend is inside me. He’s grinning and humming and the disgust is nearly completely absent from his expression. I realize for the first time that, for the last five years, there’s been a steady stream of fear running through my inner monologue, buried deep beneath the surface. I’ve been scared that Moran would leave.

And now, I’m certain that he won’t.

I don’t know why I’m certain.

Ugh, those melty emotions are coming on again.

The head of his cock slides over my prostate, and the sensation coupled with the emotion makes it difficult to breathe. “My Tiger.”

Basher glides in and out, slow and smooth, worrying that spot that makes me moan. “Your Tiger,” he purrs back, pleased at the nickname and nuzzling into my neck again. “All yours, boss.”

He fists my cock while shallowly penetrating me, gentle and sweet, like he’s not an assassin. Like we’ve not killed people. Like I didn’t threaten him with death for not drinking a latte once upon a time.  

“I love you, Jim. Even when you’re naughty and bite-y and bitchy.” He kisses my neck and nibbles at the skin until I shudder.

My mental map of my body suddenly seems to focus in on those three points of contact--where we’re connecting, where he’s jerking me off, and where his mouth is touching my neck. My nerves are lit up like our Christmas tree. His body is pressed so tight against mine.

Just a few more thrusts . . .

And then he stops again. Withdraws.

Tears of fury and betrayal sting my eyes. He shushes me before I can scream, kissing the side of my face, pleading with me to keep calm. “Shh, shh, I love you, Jim. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t, kitten. You’re going to feel so good when you do finally come. I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t going to be amazing, kitten. Trust me. Trust your tiger.”

_ I was. And in the span of five seconds, you destroyed that trust. _

“I will murder your entire family.” The severity of the threat is dampened by the fact that the words come out in a whimper.

“Shh, shh, you’re my family, kitten. Hell, we can do the whole Ruth and Naomi thing. ‘Your people will be my people.’”

The arousal subsides and I’m left feeling I might implode. It reminds me of the unfulfilledness that plagues me when I’m trying to break the obsessive hand-washing cycle, only magnified and infinitely more urgent.

Basher strokes my flanks and my chest, trying to soothe me. “I think about your lips a lot, kitten. I think about how they match the color of your cock. I think about your eyes too, how they light up when you get your way and how they get so stormy when you don’t. You’re so expressive, Jim, and I just love that about you.”

He traces the tip of his index finger along the underside of my cock, applying just enough pressure to keep me hard. “I’ve developed an appreciation for your body, too, kitten. I don’t think I’ll ever be attracted to other men, but I’m attracted to you. I love your skin, how smoothe it is, how it turns pink when you’re aroused. Everywhere. Your chest, your stomach.” He kisses me again, no tongue, just lips.

_ I’m losing again. _

“I need--”

He shushes me again, his tone soft and gentle and understanding and  _ urging my surrender _ . “I know, Jim, sweetheart, I’ve got you. I know what you need. Just relax. Trust me.”

_ I do. _

And so, I let go.

My body goes slack. My brain quiets. I throw my arms around Basher’s neck, and I do my damnedest to quell the distrust that swells inside me. The alcohol has left me feeling heavy and warm, and Basher’s ministrations have left my nerves alight.

I take a deep breath.

Basher’s hand rests on my throat as he kisses me. He doesn’t press and I don’t lean in, and we kiss like we’re not outliers in a universe of ordinary people. Like the existential isolation of being a psychopath and a child of abuse doesn’t haunt us.

Like it’s all enough.

It is enough.

He enters me again, one hand gripping my thigh while the other cradles the back of my neck. He kisses the inside of my wrists when I reach up to touch his face.

This is how ordinary people fuck.

It’s not terrible.

I feel warm and oozy and that thick feeling of warm honey spreads over me again along with the sensation of an impending tidal wave. The tide ebbing outward.

Deep breath.

“Sebastian.”

He bucks upward at a slow pace that gradually gains momentum. He fucks deeper into me. Faster. Harder. For reasons unknown, I hold onto him, tight as I can.

Basher won’t laugh. Basher won’t leave. And for the first time in my life, I feel completely safe and sheltered. It’s a deep feeling, frightening in the depth of which it will affect my life from here on out.

He fists my cock again. He kisses down my chest to suck my nipples again. He fucks me harder, assaulting my prostate, teasing precum from my slit. My whimpering makes him jerk, hips thrusting harder and faster.

“I wanna make you come, Jim. Can you come like this?” He’s sounding less and less coherent. His pace picks up, becomes sloppier. “Kitten, please? Please come for me. Come for your Tiger. I wanna be good for you, Jim. I wanna make you feel good, kitten. Please? Please, boss?” He lowers his mouth to my ear. “Come for your Tiger, Daddy. Because it’s Christmas? Because I want it so bad. I want be your good Tiger, Daddy.”

_ My Tiger. _

I shatter beneath him.

I’m shuddering. I’m twitching. I’m floating. I’m safe.

I’m loved.

Vulnerable “Jameson” merges with the persona of “Jim” because it’s safe now. And Basher has no idea. He’s just pleased to be fucking in front of a Christmas tree.

This is what an occupation feels like. To have surrendered, to be invaded, to change how you live because of an occupying force.

I can’t change this and I don’t want to.

He collapses on top of me, a sweaty mass of muscle coated in my come. His belly smears it across mine. He kisses behind my ear, gently easing his spent cock out of my hole.

“Get off of me,” I groan. “You’re so heavy.”

“Get some more whiskey,” he murmurs, resting his head on my chest.

“What did I just say?” I try to sound snappy, but I can’t. I feel shaky all over. “You’re too heavy. I can’t move.”

“Mm, let’s go to bed.”

“Okay, well, you have to get up.”

“I’m sleepy, Jim.”

“Get the fuck off of me and we’ll go to bed.”

He looks up at me with contented, glossy eyes. “That was fun, Jim.”

“For you.”

He groans again, forcing himself up and off of me. He tosses my pyjamas to me, then dresses himself. "Let's go to bed." While I dress, he downs another shot. He lifts me gracelessly off the couch. He stumbles a little and for a moment, I fear we're going to topple over, but he rights himself.

"I fucking love Christmas, Jim."

"You're an idiot."

"Christmas idiot," he slurs. "Christmas idiot who won."

Evelyn doesn't stir as we climb into the bed. Basher spoons me, even though I try to wriggle away. I'm overstimulated, I'd rather not be touched, but I'm too tired to escape. And maybe I just want this. Maybe I just want to be here.

" _ I don't wanna lot of snow for Christmas, I don't even want snow, I just want some mistletoe... _ "

"Basher, I swear to God."

"You shouldn't. You godless heathen."

He continues to hum drunkenly in my ear until he falls asleep.

It's a nice distraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all better thank your lucky stars I didn't write this as a song fic.


	39. The Fairytale

_ February 2016 | Jim’s POV _

Everything about Basher is wrong.

It’s skewed, somehow. Inverted.

Because kisses from Basher should be possessive and fierce and dominating, and his touches should be gripping and firm, and his words should be forceful and frightening. Instead, he kisses me softly and playfully, like a puppy chasing a butterfly, and he touches me like he’s trying to keep me warm, and he says things that I don’t understand, that I can’t understand, that make my guts feel like butter melting in a hot pan.

I don’t understand him. I don’t understand how he can be a killer, ferocious and callous and  _ everything that I need him to be _ , and then he can be so soft. . .

Sex is so bizarre with Basher, so immeasurable and unhurried and boring and soul-shattering, even when I lead. Even when I top.

He looks up at me with those killer’s eyes so full of warmth and life and gentleness, and what the hell is this Basher? Where’s the glint of victory in your eyes? Where’s the terror? Where have you stashed the appropriate responses for having sex with the Professor of the Underground?

“You’re beautiful, Jim.” And he says it with such sincerity! His voice is just dripping with gentleness and honesty and Jesus Christ, what am I supposed to do with that?

And his hands amble up my chest, slow and firm, just enjoying the feel of warm skin against skin, and he smiles at me like an idiot. Like a heathen child smiles up at the sun. It’s unbearable.

He pulls me down for another kiss, still so slow and intentional. His hands slide up my back and hold me against him, the way someone might hold onto a floatation device on a nice, relaxing day at the lake. His hips rut up against mine, his erection against mine, and still there’s no urgency.

“I love you, kitten.” And he nuzzles into my neck, and it’s  _ just. so. much. _

Both of his hands cup my face, and that’s the first thing that’s felt right about this--rough, calloused skin, a strong grasp--and it’s solely to bring me in for another kiss. Another tender touch of his tongue against mine. And he chuckles softly to himself, not at me, not at what’s happening.

And the words come out, even if I don’t mean them, “I love you, Tiger,” and I can’t justify their existence, and I can’t justify mine, and everything hurts, and I hate that I spiral into this every fucking time we fuck.

“I love you.” He says it again, hands trailing down to my hips, and the words dissolve into my skin and make the entirety of my being blush.

“You’ve said.”

He chuckles again. “I know but you like hearing it.”

“No I don’t.” Is that a lie?

“Yeah, you do.”

And he lets me take him, face to face this time, insisting on kisses and touches, like this is some sort of bonding experience and not just a means of satisfying instinct. And every goddamned time we do this, I can’t remember who I want to be, only who I am.

Basher’s seen all of me, every aspect, every shade, and by all means, I should want him dead. I do want him dead.  _ Except that's a lie _ . But he’s stayed, and he didn’t laugh, and he’s seen my weaknesses and it’s okay, and the thought of his absence is infinitely more painful than his presence.

Everything about Basher makes me feel like a kid looking up at the sky, astounded by the vastness of time and space, just reflecting on how beautiful the stars are, unconcerned with what they’re made of; everything about Basher makes me oblivious to the Earth speeding through eternity, makes me forget that we’re completely out of control, at the mercy of indifference. Everything about Basher makes me feel safe and ignorant against the reality of an unfeeling universe.

And he cries out, and  _ goddammit, no, please, I’m sorry, Tiger _ , because do I actually care that this might hurt him? Because even if it  _ does _ , he’ll come back. I think? Before I can stop myself, I’m shushing him, whispering something soft against the skin of his chest, still, steady inside of him.

“You’re so big, kitten,” he manages. And he’s an idiot, because I’m just on the small side average, but he doesn’t know any better, the hetero. He exhales, long and loud and slow. “I’m okay.”

And he licks at my neck, my jawline, urging me to keep going, but how can I? How can I continue any of this? How can I take my next breath when I’m so fucking baffled by everything that is Sebastian Moran?

“Bash?” And I don’t know who said that.

And he shushes  _ me _ this time, and he kisses me while I violate him. And I’m angry that it’s only in the last few years that I’ve been aware of how absolutely devastating and painful love can be. I hate this feeling, and I wish I’d found it sooner.

He kisses me and every time I fall further away from  _ what?  _ and my veins crack through my skin, and I am exposed and vulnerable, and I don’t know how to continue.

And I’m safe. And every time I realize that, I feel as though I’ve never been here before.  It’s familiar, and it’s new. It’s timeless. Unquantifiable.

And I’m saying his name, and fuck, I want him to come. I want him to come from this. I fist his cock and his back arches, but he’s still not there, because how can he be? Biologically, chemically, he doesn’t want me.

Except he does? Because he’s here, and he keeps being here.

I want to be apprehensive, like I used to be the few times we did this, because that’s a series of neurotransmitters and chemicals that I understand. What I don’t understand is why in the world I feel safe in the arms of anyone, especially an assassin. Why the human brain is even wired to register safety and comfort when in reality, there’s no reason to ever feel safe or comfortable.

“Please, Tiger? Is this enough? Can you--?”

And I can’t ask the question in its entirety because it’s just too much.

That damnably warm laugh. Those inviting, safe, piercing, healing eyes. “No rush, kitten.” And more kisses. “We’ll get there.”

_ We. _ Plural. Because it’s plural now.

Because we’re plural now.

He’s gotten under my skin, into my lungs, and if he’s gone, will I ever remember how to breathe alone?

There’s so much terror in safety.

Everything about Basher is wrong. And everything about Basher feels like a newly-pieced-together puzzle.

And everything about him feels warm and alive and it’s almost like everything before him was wrong, and he’s the only thing that’s right.

And then . . .

“I love you, Sebastian.”

“I love you too, Jim.” And he means it, he always means it!

And I can’t avoid climax, and it’s painful in the way that it’s painful when cold hands heat up too quickly, and it’s like being shocked back to life, and it’s terrible and wonderful, and. . .

Everything about Basher is indescribable, because he exists outside of expectations and patterns. And he’s mine, and he’s safe, and I’m his and I’m safe. Reality is tinted by this man, and what once seemed so clear is faded in his shadow.

And maybe we can conquer the chaos of the universe because what once was singular is plural, and maybe that’s enough.

In moments like these, the entirety of reality ceases to exist and everything about Basher is the only everything.

~~

_ April 2016 | Basher’s POV _

Father Henry Peter is serving as an interim priest in Paulista, Brazil, which, unfortunately, means we’re moving to Brazil after Jim’s fellowship ends. Which also means that I’ll be attending mass led by an alcoholic murderer and while both those descriptors can be applied to myself, the whole things makes me uneasy.

I start doing little jobs for Jim here and there. Moving organs from one facility to the other, getting identity documents from one gang to another, very pedestrian stuff. Soon, though, order finds it way through the criminal world of Brazil and Australia, and before you know it, I’m back on the docks every few weeks, ensuring our products don’t get mixed in with the legitimate products.

Sometimes, maybe once every two months, I go work for Irene. Mostly to keep up appearances with the British Government and to keep her updated on her Pete’s doings. In return, she gives me information on various criminal happenings in New South Wales.

I never stay for long though. I really do hate to be away from my Jim and my Evelyn for too long. It's funny how the two of them destroyed the life I worked so hard to build for myself, and yet, somehow, I'm back where I started. I'm doing exactly what I was doing five years ago, working for Moriarty, but everything's completely changed. I'm a business partner. I'm a father. And, as luck would have it, I'm a lover.

Jim is reading beside me in our bed. I’m dozing, knowing that I should get Evey’s jersey out of the wash before the red runs onto her socks, but being entirely too lazy to give a damn. (I’m a wonderful father.)

His phone buzzes.

“Who is it?” I mumble. It’s habit now. Like I’ve said, you don’t get a lot of questions with Jim, but as long as I keep my questions to one, I can ask often. It’s a balancing act, talking to Jim, but I think he’s working on it. Maybe. Maybe I’m just getting better at working with him. Anyway, asking one question often has helped me stay abreast of his Side Project activities.

“Someone I need you to kill.”

“M’kay.” I roll over. “I’ll do it in the morning.”

He taps out a response on the mobile, then slams his book shut.

Jim is so goddamn dramatic at all hours of the day. It’s bloody exhausting. I ignore him. He wants me to ask, but I’m tired, and I don’t want to, and if he wants to have a discussion he can bloody well approach it like an adult.

I feel his eyes burning into my shoulder. It’s getting harder to ignore him.

“How was work?” he asks in his flirtatious sing-songy way.

I groan. “Uneventful.”

“Was our dear priest there?”

“Kitten, if you’re gonna be awake, go get Evey’s football things out of the wash and hang them out to dry.”

I hear him huff. “What the hell are we, barbarians? We have a dryer! And electricity!”

“She’s hit a growth spurt, and it’ll shrink in the dryer.”

“That’s fuckin’ absurd,” he snaps back. “It’s 2016.”

“Fine, go put it in the dryer,” I concede. “You’ll be the one dealing with her when she’s throwing a tantrum at practice.”

He curls against me, spooning me, his chin resting on my shoulder. “Hey Tiger?”

“Jim, I swear to God . . .”

He nibbles at my shoulder. “Tiiiiiger,” he whines.

I flop over onto my back. “Whaaaat?” I mock him.

He snuggles against my chest. “I need you to kill somebody.”

“I told you I’ll do it in the morning.”

“If I finish up the laundry, will you do it?”

I rub my eyes. The light doze is long gone. “What? Who? Why is it so important right now?”

He starts tapping against my chest. I take his hand, and I realize how smooth his skin is now. Plump and resilient and no longer scaly. It has been a while since he’s scrubbed his hands to the point of bleeding. Is it the expensive soaps and lotions I’ve been buying him or has the self-soothing handwashing behavior reduced? I kiss his palm. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m glad he’s doing better? Maybe it’s just nice to feel smooth skin? Maybe I’m rewarding the positive turn in how he copes? “He’s not in Brazil, is he?” I ask, referring to, of course, Sherlock Holmes.

Jim shakes his head. He leans down to kiss my forehead. “I need you to kill Father Henry Peter.”

“Right now?”

“Mhm.”

“No, Jim, it can wait.”

“What?! Who are you?! You hate him!”

“Jim, there’s a lot that goes into it. You know that. I gotta get his schedule down, gotta do some staking out, figure out the weather.” I motion to the window, the curtains closed. “See, I don’t even know what it’s doing outside. No, no, I can’t do it tonight.”

Jim slaps my chest. “Just fucking kill him! You don’t have to shoot him. You can just go in and stab him!”

“Uh-huh, nope. Not tonight. We’re out of bleach anyway.”

“You’re an assassin,” he groans. “Why are you out of bleach?”

“We’re out of bleach, first of all, because second, you encouraged your daughter to start a foodfight at lunch today. That’s why we’re out of bleach.”

Jim’s frown deepens. “OH MY GOD IS IT COLORSAFE?”

I bait him. “Is it what?”

“Did you use colorsafe bleach?!”

I laugh. “Kitten, I’ve been doing your laundry for almost ten years, I know what color safe bleach is.” The panic leaves his face. “But I’ve never used it at a murder.”

“I’m sure it works just as well.”

“I. Am. Not. Killing. ANYONE. Tonight. Understand?”

He kicks me under the sheets. “You great lazy shit. I ask you to do one thing. . .”

“What did he even do?”

“He defied one of my orders.” His eyes darken, zeroing in on mine. “Just like you’re doing right now.”

I pat his cheek. “Fine, you get an assassin at this hour, babe, to come and kill me. I need the rest anyway.” I roll over onto my side.

“Baaaaasherrrrrr!”

I throw the covers off me in aggravation. “Ok, fine! Jesus Christ, you annoying little twit! You’re taking Evelyn to her counseling appointment in the morning. I’m not kidding!” I storm over to the closet to retrieve some supplies, purposely slamming the door and knocking around everything I can.

“Are you just gonna go out in your pants?”

I glare at him. “Yes. As a matter of fact. I wasn’t, but then you asked that and yes, I’m going to. And you know what else? I’m going to stop by that 24 hour shop and buy some cigarettes, and when I get back, you better suck me off, because I’m told fags and oral sex are the market rate for priestly murders these days.”

~~

Four hours later, I’m sliding beneath the covers of the bed I share with Jim. I’ve cleaned up the scene and had my fill of nicotine and cachaça. At some point in my absence, Evelyn has gotten into bed with her Daddy.

Oh my precious little makeshift family. It really is so comforting to come home to loved ones after a night of murder and substance abuse.

I close my eyes, pulling my daughter against my chest and searching for Jim’s hips to pull him into the pile.  I shouldn't be as proud of this as I am, but Jim's a lot less jumpy now.  I can touch him while he sleeps.  It wakes him up, but it doesn't send him into a homicidal frenzy the way it used to.  I'd call that a success.  My Jim likes to be touched, though I doubt he knows that about himself.

“Mm, tiger,” he moans in his sleepy state.

“All done, kitten. Sweet dreams.”

“You smell like nicotine.”

“Shut up.”

A long interlude of sleepy silence.

“Hey Tiger?”

“Hm?”

“You wanna know what he diiiid?”

Might as well humor the little drama queen, am I right? “Sure.”

“I asked him if he would marry us.”

My eyes pop open. It feels like the nicotine and alcohol just evaporate from my body.

“He said he wouldn’t.”

Well, obviously. Does Jim know anything about the Catholic church? Oh my God. I can’t breathe.

OH MY GOD.

As a boy, I imagined my wife as a tall, dark, plump thing, always dressed like Maid Marion from the Disney version of _Robin Hood_. Long black hair with dark eyes and a genius in the kitchen. Perhaps a little too passionate to be considered “sane” and amazingly vocal in bed.

And yet . . .

And yet, I would gladly lay down my life for my genius, ridiculous, vulnerable, powerful employer-slash-boyfriend, as any proper husband would. When I think of my future now, I think of camping with Evey and Jim, of Christmas in Ireland, of the New Year in India, of Evey’s next football game, all scheduled around shipments and deliveries and assassinations.

“You could’ve asked me first.”

“Nah. I did actually need him to be, you know, dead.”

I feel strangely warm and flustered and tense. Like a prepubescent girl. I try to shake it off.

But it’s such a pleasant feeling, being wanted, being loved (maybe?), not knowing what to do with the energy that comes with declarations of love. I let it lull me to sleep in the silence of my bedroom. The bedroom I share with Jim. It’s okay that Evelyn’s foot is pressing into my kidneys. It’s okay that Jim steals all the covers.

My name is Sebastian Moran. I hunt. I fuck. I kill. Everything's exactly how it was eight years ago. Except now I do the washing and cooking for the makeshift family I never imagined I would have.

 


	40. Scenes of a Happy Family

_May 2016 | Jim's POV_

The door banging against the wall brings me out of the world of polynomials and gravitational lensing. During my studies, I've forgotten who I am, where I am, that I own a body and am not just a cluster of ideas and thoughts, et cetera.  Seeing Basher with papers in his hand and an idiotic grin on his face brings it all back in a flash. I'm back in my body, aware that the hours of poring over journals and my own notes has left my shoulders tight and my eyes hot. I have to blink a few more times to adjust to reality.

"Jim!" he shouts. "Look!"

He shoves the papers at me, and they're instantly recognizable as something from the  _Huffington Pos_ t or other pop-news outlet. We don't have a printer in our flat, so this tells me that my dear idiot fiance has travelled to the library or somewhere equally ridiculous to print out an internet article.  

I stare at him with a dropped jaw. "You could've just sent me the link, you know." I motion to the laptop beside me. "I've got, you know, email."

Basher is buzzing with excitement. "No! Read it!"

With a loud sigh, I begin to read aloud the parts he's highlighted:

 

> _The Truth About Gay Mansex_
> 
> _Here's the truth: there are a lot of gay men who don't like anal sex! Preparation can be a pain, sometimes you just don't wanna wait, and hell, some of us don't like it!_   _So, now that that's out of the way, let's talk about other ways to have sex with your man--_

I interrupt my reading to tell my darling idiot that, "None of this is news to me, Basher. Not that this should be a surprise to you, but I've been doing the whole gay sex bit for a while now."

"No! You're missing the point!"

"What's the point then?"

"We can just have frottage-y sex or just handjobs or whatever! It still counts! We don't have to do all the anal prep stuff! We don't have to schedule and plan sex all the goddamn time!"

I rub my eyes. Coming out of research mode is like waking up with a hangover. Everything is achy and too bright. And Basher's stupidity is trying my already thin patience.  "I know that."

"Jim! We can have sex!"

"Yes, we can."  _Oh._   The realization hits me. "You want to have sex right now?"

"Yes!"

I blink again, a bit taken aback. I've at least partially misunderstood our situation. I'd assumed his heterosexuality had been the only reason our sexlife had been virtually nonexistent, and there's probably some truth to that, but it also had to do with Basher not understanding how sex can work without the male/female ends. He's been avoiding it because he thought anal sex was the be-all, end-all of gay sex.

Catholics are really so sweet and naive.

Secretly, I'm pleased that my masculinity hasn't been the sole turn-off for my heterosexual betrothed. Soothes the ego a bit that I haven't completely stomped out the blazing libido Basher Moran was known for amongst my callgirls.

I point to the journal I'm reading. "Can I finish the article first?"

He groans, shoulder sagging emphatically.  "Goddammit, Jim!  Are we gonna have sex? Like, I just need to know.  Just give me a yes or no answer."

I wish I could find a way to tell the blood vessels in my face that this is not the time for dilation.  I must be beet red.  "Yes, just let me finish this. I've got to change gears, and I can't in the midst of reading a study."

Impatience is scrawled all over his face.  "How long will you be?"

I shrug.  I count the pages left of the journal article I'm reading.  "Erm, give me ten minutes, and I'll meet you in the bedroom."

With an excitement that doesn't help my blushing problem, he jumps up and shouts, "Yes!" before starting to slip out of his shirt and making a mad dash down the hall to our bedroom.

~~

_Snippets from June 2016 | Dialogue_

"We should get all of our wedding decorations from Sky Mall."

"Jim. No."

~

"Jim, We are not inviting Dwayne Johnson to our wedding."

"And just why the hell not?"

"Well for starters, he didn't come to Evelyn's birthday bash or your dinner party or your fake aunt's fake funeral."

"He didn't even RSVP no! So rude. I'm giving him the opportunity to redeem himself."

". . . Jameson, we are not inviting Dwayne Johnson to our wedding."

~

"WE SURE AS FUCK ARE NOT INVITING SHERLOCK HOLMES!"

"Inappropriate outburst, first of all. Second, this is _my_ wedding too, so stop vetoing all of my guests."

"I'm not letting the love of your life attend _our_ wedding."

"I don't _love_ him. I'm obsessed with him."

"He's not getting an invite."

"Basher!"

"He thinks your dead anyway. Move on."

"What, I can't be dead and get married?"

"Typically, no."

"Are you jealous of Sherlock?

"Yes."

"Oh. . . . Baaash. My big jealous fiance."

"Stop it."

"You're cute when you're jealous."

" _Stop_."

~

"You're not wearing white."

"Oh my gooooood, Sebastian, you are KILLING ME."

"If we're going to be an affront to the Lord Almighty, we're at least going to be honest about it."

"You won't let me wear the dress, you won't let me wear white, you won't let me invite ANYONE--"

"THAT IS NOT EVEN TRUE. I'm just not letting you invite the entire cast of _Sex and the City_!"

"I'm going to wear red then."

"I won't let you dress like a virgin so you're going to dress like a gigolo?"

"Yes."

". . . I don't know why I expected anything else."

~

"Jim!"

"Yes?"

"Why is there a wedding dress in our closet?"

"Because when Evelyn's older, she might want to wear my wedding dress to her wedding."

"You AREN'T WEARING A DRESS!"

"That doesn't mean I can't _have_ one! It's tradition!"

"Wait a second. Is this my _mother's_ wedding dress?"

"Obviously."

~

"Bash?"

"Hm?"

"It's one in the morning. What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"Are you looking at porn?"

". . .yes."

"Oh my god, you're still on pinterest."

"Look at these wedding cakes!"

"Go to bed, Basher."

". . . I also have a board for centerpieces for the reception. You know, if you wanted to look with me."

". . . Fine. But only because you're a horrendous decorator."

"Hey kitten?"

"Hm?"

"I'm really excited about marrying you."


	41. The Fifth Good Deed of Jim Moriarty

_ July 2016 | Jim's POV _

Basher's an odd sort. Intuitive and decisive in a crisis, he finds himself awkward and uneasy when he has to wait, especially when it's bad news. He's pacing throughout the living room, but he won't say he's pacing; he'll say he's getting water, checking on Evey, putting the dishes away, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. His jaw is set tight, an air of anxiety surrounding him, b ecause right now, there's nothing he can do but wait.

And that kills him.

God, I want to kill him.

"Papa," Evelyn finally says, "be still!"

He side-eyes her but says nothing. He goes to check the window for the nth time.

"Papa!"

"Hush! Carrie might be lost."

"She has a GPS, I'm sure," I pipe in.

Basher glares at me. "She was supposed to text me when she landed, but she hasn't. We should've met her at the airport." This is directed at me, of course, as if he's not in cahoots with me on the whole criminal bit. Understand, places like airports--one has to be careful. If you show up often enough, people will remember your face. And the more you appear, the more suspicious they get. Then they notice you're around just before or just after something bad happens. And someone decides to be a hero and tip off the police, which, in reality, is fine, I love a good chase, but with our work still in its infancy and our double-agent priest being dead, I'm not ready to take such risks.

Also, I don't want to meet fucking Girl Moran.

Suddenly, Basher's caged me in in my armchair, his face inches from mine, facing away from Evey. "Did you blow up her plane?" he mouths.

I scoff. "I don't care enough to put forth the effort, Tiger."

"Don't call me that when she's here."

_ Oooh, and that is why I don't want her here _ . Moving to a new country, a new continent has been useful in ripping from Basher his heterosexual tendencies with only the occasional slip-up here and there. His sister, being a conservative Catholic-turned-Pentecostal wife of a pastor, has already reset him to the Basher I knew ten years ago, and she hasn't even bloody arrived yet.

I think. . .if I'm honest--with myself, not with Basher or Evelyn--that triggers my own insecurities. Basher is, for all intents and purposes, straight, and he has to work at being attracted to me, to suppress the urge to pull away when we touch, and what if his goddamned bitch of a sister comes in here and he decides he's had enough playing gay and leaves?

"Are you ashamed of me?" I ask, daring him. Once again, I find myself trying to anger him, and I'm not sure why.

He storms back to the window, arms crossed over his chest. "No, but I don't wanna rub it in her face."

"You're not responsible for her discomfort."

"I'm not responsible for yours either."

The thought of deveining my fiance enters my mind, not for the first time today. The insecurity tightens across my chest, and I think maybe I start to feel it in my fingertips.

"Oh fuck, she's here." He pounces, but he's not sure on what to pounce, so he's holding his face and turning in circles on one heel, unsure if he should go out to greet her or put the kettle on or brace Evelyn for meeting her aunt. "God, she's here!"

My big bad soldier is brought to his knees by his holy-roller sister.

"Goddammit!" he shouts. "I don't wanna do this. I changed my mind."

"I'll tell her."

"No! Sit back down!" He takes a deep breath.

"Why does Papa get to curse?" Evelyn asks, deeply offended that she's not extended the same courtesy.

"Because he's having a nervous breakdown."

"I am not." He throws open the door before Augusta "Carrie" Caroline Mason nee Moran can even knock.

Her relatively attractive, if aged, face melts from one of prepared pleasantry to hideous sobbing as soon as she sees him. "Bash," she sobs, and the two are suddenly locked together.

Ugh. Families. This is what normal families do.

Clearly uncomfortable with the outburst, Evelyn abandons her place on the floor where she was relacing her cleats and leans against my armchair to whisper, "What's going on?"

"Another nervous breakdown from the looks of it.  Don't worry, darling."

Basher breaks away from his sobbing sister and the two are whispering in urgent tones. Because the threshold of our front door is the best place for a private conversation (sarcasm implied, for those of you who are idiots and can’t infer). Basher hugs her again, and she buries her face in his chest.

I look away from the bizarre pantomime, returning my attention to my mobile. Basher escorts her through the living room to the kitchen, not even bothering to introduce us.

Up until this point, I had no desire for formal introductions. Now, however, my homophobic arsehole fiance is absolutely going to introduce me and our goddamned daughter to his homophobic arsehole sister.

A tight smile on my face, I take Evelyn’s hand. “Come, dear, let’s go meet Aunt Carrie.”

“I don’t want to.” She furrows her brow. She looks so much like me; I have to pause to wait for the heart-melting to cease before I can return to being a petty prick.

“I don’t either, but it’s polite, and Papa seems to have forgotten his manners.”

Eager at the idea of calling out her dear Papa, she bounds into the kitchen, shouting, “HEY!  PAPA! YOU’RE BEING RUUUUDE!”

As I round the corner, I see Basher at the stove, preparing tea for Carrie.  _Who is_   _in_ _ my chair _ . I tense up, swallowing a shout.

“I’m sorry, my darling, Carrie is having a bit of a crisis,” Papa tells her, attempting to appease her, but it’s clear that all his energies are pinpointed on his sister.

“And that’s a reason to be rude?” I challenge him.

His eyes meet mine and flash with rage. I maintain his gaze. With gritted teeth, he tells me, “Carrie met with Augustus, Jim. Can we have some space?”

“No.”

He throws his hands up in exasperation. “Fine, goddammit!” He motions to me with an exaggerated bow. “This is my boyfriend--” He stumbles over the word, the first time in nearly a year, and my chest feels like it’s caught in a vice-- “Jim. Jim, this is my sister, Carrie.”

I regret this. I don’t wanna meet Carrie. I just didn’t want Basher to sweep me under the rug. And now I  _ have to _ meet her, formally. I just wanted her to meet me, not the other way around. I don’t give a shit about her.

Taking on a kind, friendly persona (because that’s what people do), I walk up to her and extend my hand. “Hello, Carrie. It’s wonderful to finally meet you. Basher’s told me quite a bit about you.”

Sniffling and dabbing my _nice clean_ cloth napkins against her snotty nose, she accepts my handshake. I want to run to the bathroom immediately to scrub the germs from my skin, but, well, that would be rude. “Hi Jim,” she answers weakly, tears still streaming down her face.

Good God, I thought the British were supposed to be reserved folk. I thought Basher just had a temper but apparently his whole family is shit at containing themselves.

“And this is Evelyn. She’s our daughter.” He stumbles over “our” as well. I’ll carve his heart out of his ribcage. Who the fuck does he think he is being ashamed of us? Of our family? Isn’t he the one that’s supposed to value family above all else?

Oh. Wait. Carrie’s his family too.

It’s with startling fury that I find myself questioning,  _ Does she trump us? _

You know what? Both of them. We’ll slice out both their hearts, and we’ll hang them on the refrigerator, Evelyn and me. It’ll be a nice father-daughter arts-and-crafts project.

_ You kissed me first, you fucking bastard. _

Insecurities float up inside of me like bubbles in a glass of champagne, and when they reach my brain, they transform into rage.

I come back to myself to see Evelyn shaking Carrie’s hand.

“I hope we’re not a surprise.”

Girl Moran smears her mascara all over her face with my napkin. “No. Bash told me.”

“Why are you crying?” Evelyn asks gracelessly.

This causes Girl Moran to burst into a new set of sobs and tears. Jesus Christ. How much mascara has she put on that it’s  _ still _ streaming down her face? She can’t go weep in someone else’s kitchen?

Basher grabs my arm, the touch lacking any real intimacy. His eyes are blazing. “Jim, what is your problem?” he demands in a soft voice.

“Kiss me.”

“What?”

“Kiss me right now.”

He groans. But he complies. And it’s not just a peck on the cheek or lips tapping mine--it’s a decent kiss. He fists my collar, annoyed with me, and pulls me to him and he kisses me the way he kisses me goodbye in the morning. Soft, no urgency, no tongue, but full, his lips covering mine.

It quiets the insecurities enough that I can say, “Evey, let’s finish with your cleats while Papa and Aunt Carrie get settled.”

“Thank you,” Basher snips, giving me a pointed look.

“You’re welcome.”

~~

When Evelyn’s finished with her cleats, I hand her whatever handheld videogame she’s got currently and send her to her room. Hashtag good parenting. But I want to eavesdrop on the siblings Moran, and I’d rather not Evelyn join me lest she hear something traumatizing.

The patriarch of the Moran family, Augustus, is not a pleasant man. I knew him. In fact, I found out about his son through him. He approached me regarding his son’s dishonorable discharge, and in return he did some work for me with the North Koreans. Thinking back on it, I think as soon as he showed me the photo of Basher, I fell in love. Strong jaw, bright blue eyes, scarred face, broad shoulders . . . .

I take for granted sometimes just how handsome Basher is.

That’s neither here nor there, though. I don’t want Evelyn to hear about someone’s father raping them or snapping kiddie porn photos for a US senator.

Once she’s gone, I creep to the kitchen threshold and listen.

“. . . such a bad idea, I know it was. I just thought--I don’t know what I thought. I don’t know why--” Girl Moran is sobbing again.

Basher’s rage is evident in the loud sigh he releases. “Jesus, Carrie, I mean--” Another loud sigh. I hear him flop back in his chair. “That was so stupid. Why would you even think--”

She cuts him off, nearly shouting, her temper matching his. “Thanks, Seb, thanks a lot. I really appreciate your support. Augustus calling me stupid wasn’t enough; you doing it has really helped. So thanks for that.”

“Carrie, Jesus--”

“Stop saying that!”

“Carrie, sit down. I’m sorry. Look, I’m sorry. I’m apologizing. Please. Just sit, ok?”

“I didn’t come here to get berated.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I thought you of all people would be understanding.”

“I _just fucking_ said I was sorry.”

There’s silence.

“It’s just--you know what seeing him does to you. Seriously, I think you have PTSD or something.”

“I just thought he’d, I dunno, feel bad about being a bad dad, or something, and he’d bail us out. Don’t shake your head at me!”

“I just can’t believe you’d go to your fucking rapist--”

“That’s it. I’m done.”

“--and ask for money!”

She stomps across the kitchen, brushing past me. “Basher, I’m done! I’m finished with this conversation.”

He rushes for her. “Seriously? You just flew all the way here and you’re just gonna--”

Neither Moran seems to recognize that I’ve been eavesdropping on them for the last few minutes.

“Yeah, actually I am.”

“I haven’t seen you in, what, thirteen years?”

“Which is why you’d think you’d be less inclined to gripe at me about this whole thing. Fucking Christ, I don’t know why I thought you’d be, like, understanding or God forbid, brotherly.”

He grabs her arm to keep her from storming out the door. “I’m sorry. Carrie, I’m sorry. It’s just my default, you know? Like, I get uncomfortable, and we talk about dad, and I just--I just get upset, you know? I’m sorry. You’re not stupid.” He tries to pull her in for a hug but she jerks away.

“It’s uncomfortable for me, too, Bash.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have a monopoly on being angry at dad--Augustus.”

I haven’t felt this invisible standing in plain sight since I introduced myself to Sherlock Holmes as Jim from IT. I clear my throat. The siblings Moran turn their attention to me. I’ve no idea what to say, but it’s nice to be noticed, considering their spat is happening in my house.

Basher glares at me. “Can I help you, Jim?”

Carrie’s eyes narrow. “Wait, haven’t I seen you before?”

Basher pales. “No you haven’t.”

“Wasn’t he, like,--”

“Yeah, we get that a lot. No, it isn’t.”

Recognition dawns on Carrie’s face, and she’s positively certain that she knows me. “Moriarty.”

“No.”

“Jim Moriart--Oh my gosh, Sebastian Moran!” She turns back to him and repeatedly slaps his arm with her purse. “You’re living in homosexual sin with a known terrorist!”

Without missing a beat, Basher grabs her purse and fishes through it. “Oh like you don’t have some sort of kinky erotic novel in here, Madam Smut Reader.”

She jerks the purse back. “How could you not tell me you were gay?”

“I’m not gay!”

“Then why are you engaged to a man?!”

“Because we’re in love, you dumb bitch!”

My cheeks warm, insecurities furthering themselves from me.

“Isn’t that the definition of gay?”

“Uh, no, I’m pretty sure the definition of gay is being attracted to many men.”

“Oh so he’s just special?”

“Yes!”

_ Aw. Tiger. _ Pride swells in my chest.

“Perhaps you two could stop shouting in my living room?” I suggest, trying to conceal how flustered I feel. Basher is infuritating and obnoxious and I hate him, but somehow he manages to pierce me in just the place to make me melt into a puddle of belovedness. With perfect timing, the kettle shrills from the kitchen.

Both Morans are silent as they stare at their steaming cups of tea.

I’m not sure why I’ve joined them, but I have, and Basher’s hand is on my thigh, out of his sister’s sight, and it’s so nice and warm that I can’t possibly leave now. Tentatively, I lean against his shoulder and, as he always does, he absently kisses my forehead. Those weird chemicals that tell me I’m secure and safe and loved flow through my veins and my shoulders relax.

Girl Moran rolls her eyes, disgusted with Basher’s habit of affection. I grin at her, hoping it will drive her away. It doesn’t. She blows on her tea and takes a sip. “You make tea just like mum.”

Basher goes on the defensive. “No, I don’t.”

“Yeah you do.”

“No I don’t,  _ Carrie _ .”

“I don’t know why you’re getting angry about it.”

“Oh like you’re not saying it just to make me angry!”

“Basher! Jesus! Fuck, I came here for sympathy! How are you still such a dick?!”

“How are you still such a bitch?!”

I am really, honestly baffled by this relationship. In the past, Basher has spoken of Carrie with great respect and love and perhaps some sadness that he’s been written out of her life. When they first embraced in the doorway, they seemed to find comfort in one another. Now, they seem to purposely trying to irritate the other.

Is  _ this _ what normal people do? Perhaps I’m not as unusual as I thought.

“I’m so glad I didn’t bring my kids because I would hate for them--”

“Yeah well I wish my kid hadn’t met you either!”

“--to see how their UNCLE TREATS THEIR MUM!”

“THEY AREN’T EVEN REALLY YOUR KIDS!”

“Evelyn’s not really yours either, arsehole!”

“The fuck she’s not!”

“Oh was she from some previous relationship? Oh wait, you don’t have relationships, you just slut it up with women and then marry a man!”

“You leave them out of this!”

“Evelyn,” I tell her, “is mine.”

Girl Moran rolls her eyes again, making it clear that she has no intention of engaging me in conversation or argument for that matter. “I could probably just turn him in and get a reward and I wouldn’t even have to worry about the money.”

“Well,  _ Augusta _ that would be even dumber than you going to Augustus to ask for money because I would fucking kill you!”

She slams her fist down on the table. “I get it, okay? Stop rubbing it in my face! Basher, I wouldn’t’ve gone to him unless I was desperate!” Tears twinkle in her eyes. I am beyond confused about the sibling dynamics here. “Like, I know it was stupid! Okay? I don’t need you reminding me!”

Basher’s defense melts away. His hand leaves my thigh (and I hate that, and I don’t want him to stop touching me, not when his sister is perfectly capable of convincing him of their superstitious belief that homosexuality is wrong) and he reaches for hers. “Carrie, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know why we get like this.”

She starts sobbing again. “Because we’re crazy.”

He gets up and hurries to the otherside of the table to hug her, and she lets him. I suspect this is triangulation. Basher and Carrie are bitter towards their father, but he’s absent and unattainable, so they bitch at one another. Or perhaps they’re both still angry at the other for not preventing the abuse their father inflicted upon them.

They murmur soft apologies to one another while Carrie continues to weep.

“You just--you bring it up, and I just--I regret so much not doing anything about it. I just feel like shit that I didn’t try to protect you, you know? Like, when we were little, I should’ve tried to protect you, and I didn’t, and there’s just so much shame about that.”

Carrie hugs him. “You were just a kid, Bash. That’s ridiculous. No one could’ve expected you to protect me from him. We were both just kids.”

“I think it’s just easier to be angry at you for going to him than reliving how helpless I felt as a kid.”

“Oh Bash.” They’re rocking back and forth now. Ignoring me. Again. I could clear my throat again, but if I do, I’ll need to say something, and I just want to exit this situation. Is there a way to graciously and silently exit a scenario where two siblings are discussing the abuse they faced as children and the guilt and shame they carry with them as adults?

I’d thrown the idea around of obtaining another child, but seeing the Morans interact has put an end to that train of thought.

“I know Evelyn’s yours.”

“I know. And I know that those kids are yours too. I’m sorry that I said that.”

“If anyone should know that blood doesn’t make a family, it’s us,” she says with more sniffles. Thankfully, her mascara has finally run dry and her tears are clear.

“How much do you need?”

Carrie shakes her head.

“No, just tell me.”

“Basher, I don’t want to make this your problem, okay?”

“I’m not saying we can help. I’m just asking.”  _ We _ , I want to tell him,  _ are absolutely not helping. _

“He took a little over 100,000 lei, which is only £20,000, but that’s way more than our savings.”

“Your husband took off?” I ask, delighted. So much for the sanctity of heterosexual marriage.  And I do love gossip.

Carrie frowns at me. “No. Our church doubles as an orphanage in Romania. We’ve had this ministry assistant for the last six years, and we thought he was great. Everything went smoothly, he seemed so trustworthy, and then he had some sort of stroke or something and he died, and it turns out for the last six years he’d been embezzling money from the orphanage’s account and paying off some gambling debts in the States.”

I clap my hands, laughing.  “That is hilarious.”

“Jim!”

“What? She comes in here talking about sin, and you’re both scared to death of some holy man in the sky who only wants you to put your dick in women, and then someone in _her_  church steals money from a bunch of orphans. If the universe weren’t arbitrary and cold and random, I believe the term applied here would be poetic justice.”

Carrie looks me dead in the eyes, just as fearless as her brother. “Listen here, you fuck-wad, I have been quiet the whole time about you two being an abomination--”

Basher covers her mouth. “Jim! God, why do you have to provoke her?”

“Your sister just called me an abomination, and you’re yelling at  _ me _ ?”

“We poisoned all the blondes in Evelyn’s class so that she could play Goldilocks, Jim! We are abominations!”

“For poisoning seven-year-olds, possibly. Not because we have a happy, loving relationship in which we raise a child.”

“Uh, actually, that’s exactly why you’re an abomination.”

“Jesus Christ, Carrie! Why are you like this?”

“Why are you?!”

“You know we kill people, right?”

Her eyes widen in faux fear. “Oooh, are you going to come after me? Should I be worried that you’re threatening me?”

“No! I’m saying don’t give _him_ a reason to come after you!”

I tense again.  “Oh, so you’re not going to defend my honor, Basher?”

“Jim, please don’t put me in this position.”

I’m not sure what expression covers my face, but I know that suddenly I’m afraid again. Insecure. I’m second in the hierarchy of Basher’s loved ones, and before I can be angry, I’m just anxious.

He reaches for me. “Baby, I’m sorry.”

I pull back, unable to breathe. “Don’t touch me.”  Yucky emotions and feelings and that deep-seated fear of abandonment surface again and I want to rip apart my ribs to let it all out.

He comes back round to my side of the table, encroaching on me. “Jim, I’m sorry. Kitten, don’t be like that. C’mere.” I put up a half-hearted fight, but ultimately I let him pull me into his lap. “I’m sorry, okay? She’s stupid and she’s wrong, but she’s my sister, and I love her, okay?” I want to be mad at Basher, really I do. But he’s so warm and he smells so good and he’s so sincere. He kisses my forehead again. “Do you forgive me?” I shrug. He kisses my lips. “Kitten?” _Ugh_. The nickname is my kryptonite. Damn him. “Kitten, I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry.”

“Don’t tell me that you love me and then act as though you’re ashamed of me, Sebastian.”

“You’re right,” he placates me. “That was unfair. I’m sorry.”

It works, though. I feel my anxiety ebbing away. I lean against him, eager for touches and pets. Especially in front of his bitch sister. I supercede whatever idiotic beliefs the two of them hold.

“Tell me you love me.”

“I do, kitten. I love you.”  He nuzzles his face against my cheek.  

“Tell her.”

He laughs beneath his breath, then turns to Carrie. “I love him, Carrie.”

_ He’s my family now, stupid bitch. He’s my big bad soldier, my pet Tiger, mine, mine, mine. And no one gives a shit about you or your pitiful orphans or your ridiculous dogma. _

Carrie shakes her head and laughs. “You’re whipped, Bash.”

Basher doesn’t take offense to this. He grins that toothy, scar-stretching grin and says, “You live with this one and Evelyn long enough, it happens.”

Carrie’s eyes soften, and she takes a drink from her tea. “She’s beautiful, by the way. Did you guys use a surrogate?”

“She was adopted.”

“Really? Because she looks so much like Jim.”

Basher lights up at this, the proud Papa in him emerging.  “I know! Isn’t that crazy? It’s called attunement. Basically babies mimic facial expressions. I guess it slowly molds the bone structure in the face or something?  She is so much like Jim, though, it's crazy.”

“One of ours, Katie, she looks just like Joe. Just like him.”

“How many do you have now?”

Carrie’s face turns bright red. “Seven. Four adopted. Three are biological.”

“Jesus, that sounds exhausting.”

“They’re all pretty wild.” The phone comes out and suddenly she and Basher are thumbing through photos of ethnically variable children.

~~

Evelyn and Carrie are finishing the dishes. After the initial awkwardness, Evelyn seems to have warmed up to her aunt. And because the two seem to like each other well enough, I find my murderous dislike of Carrie ebbing. Damn it, just like the Lesbians in Texas.

While niece and aunt wrap up after-dinner work, Basher pulls me into a cuddle on the sofa. Truthfully, I’m feeling a tad too warm and a bit bloated after such a heavy meal (Basher decided to show off his new culinary skills and roasted a leg of lamb with an entire stick of butter), but I allow it. He’s full, a little buzzed, and happy, and when he gets like this, he reminds me of a big cat rolling around in the grass. His fingertips stroke the edges of my earlobe while he hums contentedly to himself.

He finishes off the whiskey in his glass. Now empty-handed, he lifts my chin to kiss him. The alcohol tingles on my lips. “You drink too much.”

“It’s a celebration. I haven’t seen Carrie in a really long time.”

“You drink to celebrate, to watch boxing matches, to cope with bad days--you have a problem.”

He kisses my temple. “Nah.”

“Why did she come here? Was she asking you for the money?”

“No,” he answers, emphatically. “No, absolutely not. Augustus is a terrible man, and one time he got really drunk, and he, er, he did some things to Carrie. And she won’t admit it, but that experience really traumatized her. When she sees him, she breaks out in hives, and her fingers go numb, the whole nine yards. I’m not one for therapy, but if anyone could benefit from it, she could. Anyway, she just needed to vent. She went to ask Augustus for money, which was just incredibly dumb, and he was a prick, no surprise.

“When he was an ambassador--before he went to prison for being a North Korean terrorist--he would donate to causes like that--widows and orphans, that sort of thing. It made him look good with the Church, and it made him look good with the press. Now, though, he has nothing to lose,  _ except _ money, and even though he can’t spend it in prison, he sure as hell won’t give it to his daughter.

“Anyway, she had a panic attack, so she came here.”

“Why here?”

“I get the impression that she’s not told her husband about the abuse. As far as I know, you and me and her are the only ones who know what Augustus did to her.”

“So?”

He kisses me again.  When he's tender and soft like this, as much as I hate to admit it, my hairs stand on end the way they do when I listen to the NHK Orchestra perform Stravinksy's _The Firebird Suite_.  "My weird psychopathic genius,” he teases. “Normal people-- _ ordinary _ people--like to talk things out when bad things happen. She was thrown for a loop, and rather than go explain to her family about her past, she came here, because I already knew. Sometimes you just need someone whose been through it with you.”

“Rape” is such a strange thing. Arugably, I’d been raped throughout my childhood (see Carl Powers, weird science teacher, et cetera), but I certainly don’t have the same reactions that Carrie has. Is is still considered rape if it’s not traumatizing?

I’m just not ordinary. Normal. I process things differently, I suppose.

_ My lack of self-preservation has always been the ace up my sleeve. _

I’ve never told Basher about Powers, about  _ why _ I killed him. Based on how much Carrie’s rape bothers him, I won’t ever tell him. Such a sensitive sniper. He worries about me too much as it is. And really, I’m fine.

“I wish I’d done more,” he adds after a long pause. “I wish I’d--I wish I’d stopped it.”

Oh. God. Touchy-feely Basher is on the prowl. What the fuck do I say to that?  _ Keep your guilt to yourself because I don’t fucking care _ ? Or perhaps  _ The only part of this that bothers me is how much it bothers you _ ? I’m never sure how to handle this aspect of Basher’s personality.

_ Empathy _ seems such a useless element of humanity. So does regret. Occasionally, I’ll have flashes of both, but otherwise they’re just foreign concepts to me.

I hate seeing my Tiger remorseful. Well, there are stipulations to that. I love seeing him remorseful when he’s ticked me off or when he’s failed. But if my disappointment isn’t the cause of his remorse, then I hate seeing him remorseful.

“I wish I knew how to fix this for her.”

“Providing money now won’t fix the past.” My stomach is in knots, and I’m clueless as to why.

“I know that. I’m just saying that once in my life I’d like to be able to protect my sister.” He stares at the floor, and for a moment he looks nothing like the predator I told to marry me. He looks weak and helpless and instead of hating him, I just want to . . .

To what? I can’t fix the psychological damage of the siblings Moran. I can barely understand it. But that look of profound regret is burning a hole in the lining of my esophagus.

“We’re not giving her money.”

“I’m not asking, Jim. I’m just sharing my feelings with you.”

“Well, stop.” 

~~

I have to hold Carrie back at arm’s length to avoid being hugged. “Ugh, stop.”

“Thank you, Jim.”

“I’m not giving you the money. It’s a loan.”

“It means a lot, Jim.”

“With a very high interest rate.”

She swerves to the side so that she can swoop in and kiss my cheek. “I still think you’re an abomination.”

“Ditto. Get out.” I wipe her lipstick from my cheek. “Learn how to properly apply make-up. You look like a harlot.”

Basher, oblivious to the deal I’ve just made with the devil, comes out of Carrie’s bedroom carrying her suitcase and Evelyn on his back singing about piggyback rides.

“Don’t say a word,” I warn Carrie.

“My lips are sealed.”

“Yes because you wear too much matte lipstick.”

“You sure you can’t stay longer?” Basher asks his sister.

“Yeah, I’m sure. We’ll just end up fighting. And I hate to leave Joe with fifty orphans and our own kids for too long.”

“Can I drive you to the airport?”

“No, my cab should be here any minute.”

The Morans embrace. “I’ll let you know when the wedding is.”

“I won’t come to it.”

“You should, you cantankerous bitch.”

Evelyn laughs at the slur. “I’m gonna be in it! I’m gonna be the maid of honor!”

Carrie’s expression softens. “I’ll think about it. Send me an invitation.”

I clear my throat. “You’re not invited.”

“Yes you are.”

Evelyn hops off of Basher’s back, and runs to Carrie, extending her hand. “Bye, bitch!”

Basher bops the back of her head. “Evey! That is not appropriate!”

Outside, the cabbie honks before he’s completely in front of our house. I shove Carrie out the door, taking her bags from Basher and tossing them after her. “Bye, bitch!”

~~

Basher’s hands on my shoulders bring me out of my thoughts. Up until now, I was oblivious to the ache in my shoulders and the burning in my eyes. I check the clock on the wall. It’s three in the morning.

I try to squirm out of his reach. Sometimes, not always, I hate being touched. Right now, I absolutely hate it. “I’m working.”

He works the tension in my shoulders. “Jesus, you’ve got a knot here.”

“Did you wake up at three to give me a massage?”

“What are you working on?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re supposed to keep me in the loop, remember?”

_ If you had any discernment at all, idiot, you’d know I loaned your sister £30,000. _ Luckily, Basher is oblivious to most things, and “luckily” is not a word I often apply to his obliviousness. “Some things you’ll never know.” He presses on a knot of muscle and fascia until it releases. My fingertips tingle as the bloodflow resumes.

“I’m guessing it has something to do with Augustus being strangled in his cell?”

Roylott’s acted two days early, apparently. That won’t do. I can’t have my underlings making their own calls, even if they are beneficial. Roylott may need to be disposed of sooner rather than later. Unless this murder gets him transferred to Sherrinford, which would definitely be beneficial . . .

“Jim? Did you kill my dad?”

“Of course not, I’ve been here the whole time.”

He grins and I melt. Damn his eyes, how does he manage to do that every goddamned time? He kisses the top of my head. “You didn’t have to do that, kitten. But I appreciate it.”

I’ll need to get my hands on Moran Senior’s last will and testament. Make some changes to ensure that I get that £30k back. And if Carrie gets the money, then Basher won’t be so miserable about his childhood, and we never have to see her again. And maybe Basher will inherit something as well as Girl Moran.

“It wasn’t for you.”

“Who was it for then?”

“Me, of course.”

Basher snorts. “How do you benefit from his death?”

_ Well, for starters, his newly forged will leaving £40,000 to his daughter will ensure I get paid back with interest. _ “Because if he’s dead, then your sister won’t come here again because of a panic attack that he incited.”

He laughs, warm and deep, and without realizing it, I rest my head against his torso. “I appreciate that as well.”

“She’s not coming to the wedding.”

“Yes she is.”

“No.”

“Three in the morning isn’t the best time for wedding planning, kitten.” He kneels down beside me, closing my laptop. “Come on. Bedtime.”

I shatter into a thousand pieces as his eyes, still tinted with sleep, meet mine and light up. The smile he gives me is warm and breath-taking and simple and he’s just . . .

Those icky overwhelming feelings wash over me, and my chest feels like it will burst. His grin and his eyes and his neck and his shoulders and he’s mine--

I rest my forehead against his and the confession comes out before I can stop it, before I can even realize that I truly, deeply mean it. “I also just hate it when you’re sad.”


End file.
